Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  I944 


JB«% 


BOOKS  BY  A.  P.  HERBERT 

THE    BOMBER   GIPSY 

THE    SECRET   BATTLE 

THE   HOUSE-BY-THE-RIVER 

LITTLE   RAYS  OF  MOONSHINE 

New  York:    Alfred  A.  Knopf 

i 

Little    Rays    of 
Moonshine 


By 

A.  P.  Herbert 


New  York 
Alfred  •  A.  •  Knopf 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED  STATES   OF   AMERICA 


PR. 

Li 

^  it  i  a 


DEDICATED  WITH  RESPECT 
TO 

LESLIE   SCOTT,  K.C.,  M.P. 


j 


602 


Most  of  these  pieces  have  appeared  in  the  pages 
of  Punch,  and  I  have  to  thank  the  Proprietors 
of  that  paper  for  their  courtesy  in  permit- 
ting me  to  republish.  "  The  Book  of  Jonah  " 
appeared  in  The  London  Mercury,  "  The  Su- 
preme Court"  in  The  Outlook,  "The  Art  of 
Drawing"  and  "Reading  Without  Tears"  in 
Land  and  Water,  which  perished  a  few  weeks 
later.      I   thank    them    all.  A.P.H. 


Contents 


Wrong  Numbers  9 

The  Genius  of  Mr.  Bradshaw  17 

Five  Inches  23 

Reading  Without  Tears  28 

On  With  the  Dance  35 

The  Autobiography  42 

The  White  Spat  47 

The  Art  of  Drawing  55 

About  Bathrooms  61 

A  Criminal  Type  67 

The  Art  of  Poetry  73 

The  Book  of  Jonah  94 

The  Mystery  of  the  Apple-pie  Beds  105 

The  Grasshopper  112 

Little  Bits  of  London  118 

I  The  Supreme  Court  118 

II  "The  Bear  Garden"  126 

III  Billingsgate  133 

IV  The  Bloater  Show  140 

V  Bond  Street  145 
The  Little  Guiggols  15  x 


Wrong  Numbers 

I  HAVE  invented  a  new  telephone  game.  It 
is  a  thoroughly  discreditable,  anti-social 
game,  and  I  am  not  proud  of  it,  but  it  has 
been  forced  upon  me  by  circumstances.  It  is  now 
clear  that  my  telephone  number  is  the  only  one 
the  operators  know,  and  my  game  follows  the  lines 
of  all  the  best  modern  movements,  the  principle 
of  which  is  that,  if  you  cannot  hit  the  man  you 
are  annoyed  with,  you  hit  somebody  else  instead. 
Nowadays,  when  some  perfect  stranger  is  intro- 
duced to  me  in  error  on  the  telephone,  I  no  longer 
murmur,  "Wrong  number,  I'm  afraid,"  in  my 
usual  accents  of  sweet  sympathy,  cool  resignation, 
irritation,  hatred  or  black  despair;  I  pretend  that 
it  is  the  right  number.  I  lead  my  fellow-victim  on 
into  a  morass  of  mystification;  I  worm  out  his 
precious  secrets;  I  waste  his  precious  time.  If 
you  can  square  your  conscience  you  will  find  it  is 
a  glorious  game,  though  I  ought  to  add  that  con- 
siderable skill  is  required.  It  is  best,  perhaps,  to 
make  a  general  rule  of  answering  the  call  in  the 

[9] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

first  instance  in  a  high  feminine  voice,  as  much  like 
a  housemaid,  or  a  charwoman,  or  a  Government 
typist  as  possible;  then  you  are  prepared  for  any 
development. 

The   following  are  some  of  the  best  matches 
I   have  played: — 


Me.     Hullo ! 

A  Voice.     Is  that  the  Midland  Railway? 

Me.  Yes,  Madam.  Which  department  do  you 
require? 

A  V .  It's  about  some  eggs.  An  egg-box  was 
despatched  from  Hitchin 

Me  (obsequious).  I  will  put  you  through  to 
the  Goods  and  Transit  Department,  Madam. 

A  V.   (fervent).     Oh,  thank  you! 

Me  (after  a  short  stroll  round  the  garden — in 
a  gruf  railway-voice).  Hullo!  Motor-vans  and 
Haulage  Department 

A  V.  Oh,  it's  about  some  eggs.  An  egg- 
box 

Me  (more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger).  You  re- 
quire the  Goods  and  Transit  Department.  I  will 
put  you  through. 

A  V.     Oh,  thank  you  ! 

Me  (after  planting  a  few  more  of  those  con- 
[10] 


Wrong  Numbers 

founded  cuttings — very  suddenly).  The  4.45  to 
Bunby  Major  is  suspended,  Sir. 

A  V .  {apologetic).  I  want  to  speak  about  some 
eggs 

Me  (horrified).  Some  legs! 

A  V.  (patient).  No,  some  eggs: — E — double 
G — s,  eggs.  An  egg-box  was  despatched  from 
Hitchin  by  a  friend  of  mine  on  the  21st 

Me   (sharply).     What  name,  Madam? 

A  V.  Major  Bludyer.  It  was  despatched 
on 

Me.  Is  he  one  of  the  Buckinghamshire  Blud- 
yers? 

A  V.  What?  Hullo!  .  .  .  Hullo!  It  was 
despatched  on 

Me.  I  mean,  is  he  the  Major  Bludyer — that 
well-grown  old  boy?  From  what  I  know  of  his 
eggs 

A  V .  (growing  fainter) .  I  can't  hear  you  very 
well.     It's  about  some  eggs 

Me.  Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  have  had  this  little 
talk.     Remember  me  to  old  Bludyer.     Good-bye. 


II 

Me  (squeaky).  Hullo! 

A    Voice    (business-like,    in    a    great    hurry). 
Hullo!     Is  that  you,  Mortimer? 

["] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Me  (very  deliberate) .  Mr.  Mortimer  is  in  the 
next  room.  If  you  will  hold  the  line  I  will  fetch 
him.     Who  is  it  speaking,  please? 

A  V .     Oh,  never  mind  that. 

Me  (firm).    Who  is  it  speaking,  please? 

A  V .     Oh,  da !     Say  it's  George.    And  be 

quick,  please. 

Me  (after  a  good  deal  of  unavoidable  delay). 
Hullo,  George ! 

A  V.  Hullo,  Mortimer!  You  have  been  a 
time!  Look  here — about  this  meeting:  have  you 
got  your  minutes  ready  yet? 

Me.  Not  quite.  Practically.  I  was  just  doing 
them 

A  V.  Oh !  Well,  it's  like  this :  I've  had  a  talk 
with  Sir  Donald  and  he  thinks  you'd  better  leave 
out  that  scene  about  Atkins  and  the  Debentures. 
He  thinks  we  might  have  trouble  with  the  Man- 
chester lot  if  you  read  that  out,  but  if  you  don't 
say  anything  about  it  they'll  never  know 

Me.     You  dirty  dog! 

A  V.    What's  that? 

Me  (innocent).  I  didn't  say  anything.  I  think 
there's  someone  on  the  line — (in  a  brand-new 
voice)  Cuckoo! 

A  V .  (indignant) .  I  say,  Sir,  do  you  mind  get- 
ting off  the  line?  Hullo!  Hullo!  .  .  .  He's 
gone  now.    Well,  don't  forget  that.    So  long,  old 

[12] 


Wrong  Numbers 

man.  Sorry  you  couldn't  come  round  the  other 
night;  I  wanted  you  to  meet  my  fiancee — you 
haven't,  have  you? 

Me.     Which  one. 

A  V.  (skittishly).  You  old  ass — Miss  Tickle, 
of  course. 

Me. .  Oh,  I  know  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
was  engaged  to  her  myself  once — but  that's  many 
years  ago. 

A  V.  What's  that?  You  sound  as  if  you'd  got 
a  cold. 

Me.  I  rather  think  I  have.  You  always  make 
such  a  draught  down  the  telephone.  Good-bye, 
old  man. 


Ill 

A  Voice.     Is  that  the  Box-Office? 

Me.    Which  Box-Office? 

A  V.     Is  that  the  Paragon  Theatre? 

Me.     Yes,  Madam. 

A  V .  Oh,  have  you  two  seats  for  next  Thurs- 
day? 

Me.  Yes,  Madam.  There  is  a  stall  in  row  D, 
and  I  have  one  seat  left  in  the  back  row  in  the 
dress-circle — a  very  good  view  of  the  stage, 
Madam. 

A  V .     Oh,  but  I  want  them  together. 

[13] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Me.  I'm  afraid  we  never  sell  seats  together, 
Madam.     The  Lord  Chamberlain 

A  V.    Oh,  but 

Me.  May  I  ask  why  you  want  to  see  this  play, 
Madam? 

A  V.     I  can't  hear  you.   .   .   .     Hullo! 

Me.  I  mean,  between  ourselves,  it's  a  thor- 
oughly bad  adaptation  of  a  thoroughly  bad  for- 
eign play  thoroughly  badly  acted  by  a  rotten  lot 
of  actors.  Letty  Loo  is  perfectly  awful,  and 
there's  no  room  for  your  legs,  unless  you  would 
care  for  a  box,  and  there  isn't  one  if  you  would; 
so  if  I  were  you  I  should  stay  quietly  at  home  with 
Henry.    Au  revoir! 


IV 

A  Voice  {most  important) .  Hullo!  Is  that 
the  Treasury? 

Me  (sweetly  feminine) .     Treasury  speaking. 

A  V .  (as  if  the  end  of  the  world  was  in  sight). 
I  want  to  speak  to  the  Prime  Minister's  Private 
Secretary. 

Me.  The  Prime  Minister's  Private  Secretary 
is  engaged.  I  can  put  you  through  to  the  Whips' 
Office. 

A  V .  (angrily) .  I  don't  want  the  Whips'  Office. 
I  want 

[14] 


Wrong  Numbers 

Me.     One  moment,  please. 

\_A  good  many  moments  pass.~\ 

A  V.  {menacing).    Hullo!     Hullo!     Hullo! 

Me  {sweetly,  as  if  conferring  some  priceless 
boon).  Put  three  pennies  in  the  slot  and  turn  the 
handle,  please. 

A  V .  {spluttering) .  Look  here,  put  me  through 
to  the  supervisor  at  once. 

Me  {very  far  off).     Supervisor  speaking. 

A  V.  {with  suppressed  passion,  yet  pompous 
withal).  Look  here — I'm  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment.    I've  been 

Me  {gently).  Do  not  shout  into  the  receiver, 
please. 

A  V.    Hullo !     I'm  a 

Me.     Do  not  say  "Hullo  !" 

A  V.  {madden&d).  What's  that?  Hullo! 
Look  here — I'm  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and 
I've  been  trying  for  half  an  hour  to  get  through 
to  the  Prime  Minister's 

Me.  I  am  sorry  you  have  been  trrrr-roubled. 
You  are  thrrrrough  now. 

A  V.  Hullo!  Is  that  the  Prime  Minister's 
Private  Secretary? 

Me  {quiet,  weary  and  competent) .  Which  one 
do  you  want? 

A  V .  Hullo !  Sir  Thingummy  Jig  speaking. 
I  want  to  speak  to  the  Prime  Minister's 

[15] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Me.  Yes,  I  heard  that.  But  do  you  want  the 
Principal  Private  Secretary,  or  the  Assistant  Prin- 
cipal Private  Secretary,  or  one  of  the  Personal 
Private  Secretaries?  I  mean  there  are  forty- 
seven  of  us  altogether  and  it  makes  a  lot  of  dif- 
ference  

A  V.  {weakening) .  I  can't  quite  hear.  Per- 
haps you  can  help  me.     It's  about 

Me.  One  moment,  please.  Here  is  the  Prime 
Minister  himself.  Would  you  mind  speaking  to 
him?    I'm  rather  busy. 

A  V.  (awestruck) .     Of  course   .  .   .  Hullo! 

Me.  Hullo !  .  .  .  The  Prime  Minister  speak- 
ing. .  .  .  Look  here,  Jig,  I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  you.  Would  you  mind  holding  the  line  a  mo- 
ment while  I  speak  to  my  secretary? 

A  V.  (fawning).  By  all  means.  .  .  .  There's 
no  hurry — no  hurry  at  all. 

As  far  as  I  know  the  poor  fellow  is  holding  still. 


[16] 


The  Genius  of  Mr.  Bradshaw 

NO  one  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  the 
Christian  name  of  Mr.  Bradshaw  was 
George.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  think  what 
other  name  a  man  of  his  calibre  could  have  had. 
But  many  people  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
Mr.  Bradshaw  is  no  longer  alive.  Whatever  one 
thinks  of  his  work  one  is  inclined  to  think  of  him 
as  a  living  personality,  working  laboriously  at 
some  terminus — probably  at  the  Charing  Cross 
Hotel.  But  it  is  not  so.  He  died,  in  fact,  in  1853. 
His  first  book — or  rather  the  first  edition  of  his 
book1 — was  published  in  1839;  yet,  unlike  the 
author,  it  still  lives.  He  is,  in  fact,  the  supreme 
example  of  the  posthumous  serial  writer.  I  have 
no  information  about  Mr.  Debrett  and  Mr. 
Burke,  but  the  style  and  substance  of  their  work 
are  relatively  so  flimsy  that  one  is  justified,  I  think, 
in  neglecting  them.  In  any  case  their  public  is  a 
limited  one.     So,  of  course,  is  Mr.  Bradshaw's; 

1  "Bradshaw's  General  Railway  and  Steam  Navigation  Guide 
for  Great  Britain  and  Ireland." 

[17] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

but  it  is  better  than  theirs.  Mr.  Debrett's  book 
we  read  idly  in  an  idle  hour;  when  we  read  Mr. 
Bradshaw's  it  is  because  we  feel  that  we  simply 
must;  and  that  perhaps  is  the  surest  test  of  genius. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  in  some  circles  Mr.  Brad- 
shaw  holds  a  position  comparable  only  to  the 
position  of  Homer.  I  once  knew  an  elderly  clergy- 
man who  knew  the  whole  of  Mr.  Bradshaw's  book 
by  heart.  He  could  tell  you  without  hesitation 
the  time  of  any  train  from  anywhere  to  anywhere 
else.  He  looked  forward  each  month  to  the  new 
number  as  other  people  look  forward  to  the  new 
numbers  of  magaines.  When  it  came  he  skimmed 
eagerly  through  its  pages  and  noted  with  a  fierce 
excitement  that  they  had  taken  off  the  5.30  from 
Larne  Harbour,  or  that  the  7.30  from  Galashiels 
was  stopping  that  month  at  Shankend.  He  knew 
all  the  connections;  he  knew  all  the  restaurant 
trains;  and,  if  you  mentioned  the  6.15  to  Little 
Buxton,  he  could  tell  you  offhand  whether  it  was 
a  Saturdays  Only  or  a  Saturdays  Excepted. 

This  is  the  exact  truth,  and  I  gathered  that  he 
was  not  unique.  It  seems  that  there  is  a  Brad- 
shaw  cult;  there  may  even  be  a  Bradshaw  club, 
where  they  meet  at  intervals  for  Bradshaw  din- 
ners, after  which  a  paper  is  read  on  "Changes 
I  have  made,  with  some  Observations  on  Salis- 
bury." I  suppose  some  of  them  have  first  edi- 
[18] 


The  Genius  of  Mr.  Bradshaw 

tions,  and  talk  about  them  very  proudly;  and  they 
have  hot  academic  discussions  on  the  best  way  tc 
get  from  Barnham  Junction  to  Cardiff  without 
going  through  Bristol.  Then  they  drink  the  toast 
of  "The  Master"  and  go  home  in  omnibuses.  My 
friend  was  a  schoolmaster  and  took  a  small  class 
of  boys  in  Bradshaw;  he  said  they  knew  as  much 
about  it  as  he  did.  I  call  that  corrupting  the 
young. 

But  apart  from  this  little  band  of  admirers  I 
am  afraid  that  the  book  does  suffer  from  neglect. 
Who  is  there,  for  example,  who  has  read  the 
"Directions"  on  page  i,  where  we  are  actually 
shown  the  method  of  reading  tentatively  sug- 
gested by  the  author  himself?  The  odinary 
reader,  coming  across  a  certain  kind  of  thin  line, 
lightly  dismisses  it  as  a  misprint  or  a  restaurant 
car  on  Fridays.  If  he  had  read  the  Preface  he 
would  know  that  it  meant  a  shunt.  He  would 
know  that  a  shunt  means  that  passengers  are 
enabled  to  continue  their  journey  by  changing  into 
the  next  train.  Whether  he  would  know  what  that 
means  I  do  not  know.  The  best  authorities  sup- 
pose it  to  be  a  poetical  way  of  saying  that  you  have 
to  change — what  is  called  an  euphemism. 

No,  you  must  not  neglect  the  Preface;  and  you 
must  not  neglect  the  Appendix  on  Hotels.  As 
sometimes  happens  in  works  of  a  philanthropic 

[19] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

character,  Mr.  Bradshaw's  Appendix  has  a  human 
charm  that  is  lacking  in  his  treatment  of  his  prin- 
cipal theme,  the  arrival  and  departure  of  trains. 
To  the  careful  student  it  reveals  also  a  high  degree 
of  organization  among  his  collaborators,  the 
hotel-managers.  It  is  obvious,  for  example,  that 
at  Bournemouth  there  must  be  at  least  one  hotel 
which  has  the  finest  situation  on  the  south  coast. 
Indeed  one  would  expect  to  find  that  there  was 
more  than  one.  But  no;  Bournemouth,  excep- 
tionally fortunate  in  having  at  once  the  most  select 
hotel  on  the  south  coast,  the  largest  and  best- 
appointed  hotel  on  the  south  coast  and  the  larg- 
est and  most  up-to-date  hotel  on  the  south  coast, 
has  positively  only  one  which  has  the  finest  posi- 
tion on  the  south  coast.  Indeed,  there  is  only 
one  of  these  in  the  whole  of  England,  though  there 
are  two  which  have  the  finest  position  on  the  east 
coast. 

How  is  it,  we  wonder  that  with  so  much  varia- 
tion on  a  single  theme  such  artistic  restraint  is 
achieved?  It  is  clear,  I  think,  that  before  they 
send  in  their  manuscripts  the  hotel-managers 
must  meet  somewhere  and  agree  together  the 
exact  terms  of  their  contributions  to  the  book. 
"The  George"  agrees  that  for  the  coming  year 
"The  Crown"  shall  have  the  "finest  cuisine  in 
England,"  provided  "The  George"  may  have 
[20] 


The  Genius  of  Mr.  Bradshaw 

"the  most  charming  situation  imaginable,"  and 
so  on.  I  should  like  to  be  at  one  of  those  meet- 
ings. 

This  is  the  only  theory  which  accounts  for  the 
curious  phrases  we  find  so  frequently  in  the  text: 
"Acknowledged  to  be  the  finest" ;  "Admittedly  in 
the  best  position."  Who  is  it  that  acknowledges 
or  admits  these  things?  It  must  be  the  other 
managers  at  these  annual  meetings.  Yes,  the  re- 
straint of  the  collaborators  is  wonderful,  and  in 
one  point  only  has  it  broken  down.  There  are  no 
fewer  than  seventeen  hotels  with  an  Unrivalled 
Situation,  and  two  of  these  are  at  Harrogate.  For 
a  small  place  like  the  British  Isles  it  seems  to  me 
that  this  is  too  many. 

For  the  rest,  what  imagery,  what  exaltation  we 
find  in  this  Appendix!  Dazed  with  imagined 
beauty  we  pass  from  one  splendid  haunt  to  an- 
other. One  of  them  has  three  golf-courses  of  its 
own;  several  are  replete  with  every  comfort  (and 
is  not  "replete"  the  perfect  epithet?)  Here  is  a 
seductive  one  "on  the  sea-edge,"  and  another 
whose  principal  glory  is  its  sanitary  certificate. 
Another  stands  on  the  spot  where  Tennyson  re- 
ceived his  inspiration  for  the  Idylls  of  the  King, 
and  leaves  it  at  that.  In  such  a  spot  even  "cuisine" 
is  negligible. 

On  the  whole,  from  a  literary  point  of  view, 

[21] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

the  hydros  come  out  better  than  the  mere  hotels. 
But  of  course  they  have  unequalled  advantages. 
With  such  material  as  Dowsing  Radiant  Heat, 
D'Arsonval  High  Frequency  and  Fango  Mud 
Treatment  almost  any  writer  could  be  sensational. 
What  is  High  Frequency,  I  wonder?  It  is  clear, 
at  any  rate,  that  it  would  be  madness  to  have  a 
hydro  without  it. 

Well,  I  have  selected  my  hotel — on  purely  liter- 
ary grounds.  Or  rather  I  have  selected  two. 
One  is  the  place  where  they  have  the  Famous 
Whirlpool  Baths.     I  shall  go  there  at  once. 

The  manager  of  the  other  is  a  great  artist; 
alone  among  the  collaborators  he  understands 
simplicity.  His  contribution  occupies  a  whole 
page ;  but  there  is  practically  nothing  in  it ;  nothing 
about  cuisine  or  sanitation,  or  elegance,  or  com- 
fort. Only,  in  the  middle,  he  writes,  quite  simply: 
The  Most  Perfect  Hotel  in  the  World. 


[22] 


Five  Inches 


THE  GREAT  JOKE 

THEY  came  and  split  a  turkey  with  us  on 
Boxing  Day,  ten  old  soldiers,  all  out  of  a 
job,  and  only  ten  legs  between  them.  At 
least  there  were  only  ten  real  legs;  two  of  them 
had  admirable  imitation  ones,  and  there  were  six- 
teen excellent  crutches.  One  of  them  was  a  miner 
— was,  of  course;  just  now  he  is  not  mining  much; 
perhaps  that  is  why  he  seemed  such  a  decent 
fellow,  not  at  all  violent  or  unpleasant,  as  one 
knows  those  practising  miners  are.  In  fact  he 
reminded  one  of  the  miners  one  used  to  have  in 
one's  platoon.  Personally  I  had  the  honour  to 
have  a  whole  platoon  of  them.  Odd,  isn't  it,  what 
capital  fellows  they  were  then,  and  how  sadly  they 
deteriorate  when  they  get  back  to  the  mines?  And 
it  was  odd,  too,  to  hear  this  fellow  say  that  he 
wished  he  could  be  back  in  the  pits;  I  thought  it 
was  such  a  hateful  and  dangerous  occupation. 
Yes,  he  was  a  nice  miner,  and  so  were  the  rest 

[23] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

of  them,  very  cheerful  and  respectful.  But  they 
didn't  talk  much — at  first.  It  was  strangely  dif- 
ficult to  find  a  safe  subject.  A  few  years  ago 
there  would  have  been  no  difficulty;  one  would 
have  talked  war-shop.  "Were  you  ever  at 
Ypres?"     "I  was  on  Gallipoli."     "Did  you  know 

Captain ?"     and  so  on.     We  did  a  little  of 

this,  but  it  didnt  go  very  well. 

In  the  dining-room  I  keep  a  large  coloured 
photograph  of  the  top  of  the  Vimy  Ridge  on  the 
day  of  a  battle — you  know  the  sort  of  thing,  a 
hideous  expanse  of  broken  brown  earth,  that 
dreadful  endless  brown,  with  walls  of  smoke  all 
round  the  horizon,  shells  bursting  in  the  middle 
distance,  a  battered  trench  in  the  foreground,  with 
a  few  scattered  men  climbing  out  of  it,  gazing  at 
the  camera  with  expressionless  faces,  stretcher- 
bearers  stooping  on  the  parapet  with  their 
stretchers  on  their  shoulders,  odd  men  straying 
everywhere  like  lost  sheep  across  the  chocolate 
wilderness,  looking  aimless,  looking  small. 

Our  guests  were  interested  in  that  picture;  it 
was  wonderfully  like,  they  said;  but  I  felt  that 
my  usual  remark  about  it  was  hardly  suitable. 
Usually  I  tell  my  guests,  and  it  is  true,  that  I  keep 
the  picture  as  a  kind  of  chastener,  so  that,  when 
I  am  moved  to  complain  at  the  troubles  of  this 
world,  I  can  look  at  the  picture  and  think,  "At 

[24] 


Five  Inches 

any  rate  life  is  better  than  it  was  then "     It 

w^as  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say  so  to  the  one- 
legged  men  when  it  came  to  me  that  for  them, 
perhaps,  at  the  moment,  it  wasn't  true. 

After  the  turkey  and  the  pudding  and  the 
crackers,  and  of  course  the  beer,  there  was  a 
slight  thaw,  but  it  was  still  very  difficult.  We  tried 
to  get  them  to  sing.  Only  a  few  years  ago  how 
easy  it  was.  There  was  "Tipperary"  and  many 
another  rousing  chorus.  One  was  familiar  in 
those  times  with  the  popular  songs  of  the  day. 
Unfortunately  these  were  the  only  songs  we  could 
produce  now.  And  they  didn't  suit.  "Keep  the 
Home-fires  Burning,"  for  instance — one  didn't 
like  to  suggest  that.  The  chief  minstrel  of  the 
one-legged  men,  who  was  also  the  chief  comedian, 
disinterred  from  a  heap  of  old  music,  "Your  King 
and  Country  Need  You."  "How  would  that  go, 
Bert?"  he  said.  He  said  it  without  bitterness,  I 
don't  know  why,  and  Bert's  answer  was  a  silent 
grin,  and  one  felt  that  Bert  was  right.  "Pack  up 
your  Troubles  in  your  old  Kit-bag,"  "Till  the 
Boys  Come  Home" — all  the  old  titles  had  a  cer- 
tain ironic  underlining  in  that  company. 

So  we  abandoned  singing  and  we  sat  rather 
silent.  There  was  some  desultory  conversation 
about  the  various  "trades"  to  which  a  grateful 
State  had  trained  them,  and  left  it  at  that;  there 

[25] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

was  some  mild  chaff  of  Bill,  who  had  been  too 
old  (at  thirty-five)  to  be  trained  at  all,  though 
not  to  old  to  learn  musketry  and  lose  a  leg;  but 
socially  one  felt  the  "party"  was  drifting  to  dis- 
aster. 

It  was  saved,  like  many  parties,  by  "shop,"  and 
not  war-shop,  at  least  not  exactly.  What  sort  of 
shop  will  amuse  ten  one-legged  men?  Why,  one- 
legged  shop,  of  course.  Somebody  said,  "Is  your 
leg  comfortable?"  and  that  set  the  ball  rolling. 
All  the  tongues  wagged  gleefully  at  once;  all  the 
technical  details  of  one-legedness,  all  the  points 
of  the  various  kinds  of  "legs,"  were  brought  out 
and  tossed  about  and  hotly  contested  as  if  we  had 
been  a  number  of  golfers  arguing  the  merits  of 
different  makes  of  putters.  Some  of  us  wear 
"stump-socks" ;  some  of  us  can't  stand  the  things. 
Some  of  us  have  "buckets"  (graphically  de- 
scribed) which  we  can  comfortably  pad,  and  some 
of  us  have  something  else  not  nearly  so  good. 
Some  of  us  are  excited  about  the  new  "aluminium" 
legs,  four  pounds  lighter,  which  are  soon  to  be 
available,  though  we  think  it  a  terrible  waste  of 
money  now  that  we  have  most  of  us  got  wooden 
ones.  Here  is  a  chance  for  the  "economising" 
campaigners!  Now  then,  Lord  Rothermere,  "No 
Aluminium  Legs!"  What  a  war-cry  !  Altogether 
[26] 


Five  Inches 

it  is  an  enthralling  topic;  there  is  no  more  awk- 
wardness.   .    .    . 

And  it  is  so  amusing.  Gad,  how  we  laughed! 
There  was  the  story  of  the  man  on  the  Under- 
ground, a  friend  of  ours.  Someone  trod  on  his 
false  foot  in  the  crowded  train  and,  scrambling 
out  in  a  hurry  at  a  station,  he  found  himself  foot- 
less on  the  platform,  while  the  train  slid  away 
with  the  other  fellow  still  standing  on  his  foot. 
Ha,  ha !  how  we  laughed. 

But  most  of  us  are  "above  the  knee,"  and  that 
provides  the  best  joke  of  all.  You  see  it  all  de- 
pends on  the  length  of  your  stump  (or  "stoomp") . 
If  you  have  five  inches  left  you  get  an  eighty  per 
cent  pension;  if  you  have  more  you  get  less — even 
if  it  is  only  five  and  a  quarter.  That  quarter  of 
an  inch  makes  all  the  difference,  financially,  though 
practically  it  isn't  a  great  deal  of  use.  How  much 
have  you  got?  Ah,  you're  unlucky.  I'm  four  and 
three-quarters — a  near  thing,  eh?  Peals  of 
laughter.  "You  go  back  and  have  another  inch 
off.    Ho,  ho,  ho!"  We  roll  about  in  our  chairs. 

Well,  well,  it's  a  queer  world;  but  the  party  was 
a  great  success  after  all. 


[27] 


Reading  Without  Tears 

I  AM  teaching  my  daughter  to  read.  It  is  very 
difficult.  I  cannot  imagine  how  I  learned  to 
read  myself.  And  when  I  look  at  the  classic 
called  Reading  Without  Tears,  which  was,  I  un- 
derstand, the  foundation  of  my  learning,  I  am  yet 
more  puzzled.  The  author  of  the  book  seems  to 
believe  strongly  in  original  sin.  In  the  Preface  I 
read:  "Tears  must  be  shed  by  sinful  little  creatures 
subject  to  waywardness  and  deserving  so  many  re- 
proofs and  corrections";  but  reading  need  not  be 
such  an  occasion;  and  again,  "Observe  their  minut- 
est actions;  shut  not  your  eyes  to  their  sinful 
nature;  nor  believe  them  incapable  of  injustice  or 
unkindness,  of  deceit  of  covetousness."  Perhaps 
this  attitude  explains  the  book. 

The  author's  great  idea  is  pictures.  A  is  like  a 
hut  with  a  window  upstairs.  B,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  like  a  house  with  two  windows;  and  little 
b  is  like  a  child  with  a  wide  frock  coming  to  you. 
When  I  look  at  the  pictures  opposite  I  see  what 
the  author  means,  but  when  I  look  at  A  and  B  and 

[28] 


Reading  Without  Tears 

little  b  dispassionately  by  themselves  they  suggest 
nothing  at  all  to  me.  I  simply  cannot  imagine  the 
hut  or  the  house  or  the  child  with  the  wide  frock. 
But  let  us  look  at  some  more.  D  is  like  an  old 
man  leaning  on  a  stick;  E  is  like  a  carriage  with  a 
little  seat  for  the  driver;  G  is  like  a  monkey  eating 
a  cake.  These  are  no  better.  Try  as  I  may,  I 
cannot  see  the  little  seat  for  the  driver;  or  if  I 


A 


is  like  a  hut 

with  a  window 

upstairs 

is  like  a 
house  with  two 
windows 

is  like 
an  open  mouth 


"Did  we  really  ....?" 

do,  I  see  it  just  as  vividly  in  F.  But  F  is  like  a 
tree  with  a  seat  for  a  child.  So  I  know  that  I  am 
wrong. 

Now  the  pictorial  memory  is  a  valuable  thing; 

[29] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

and  this  pictorial  method  of  teaching  is  no  doubt 
valuable.  But  surely  the  pictures  are  of  no  real 
use  unless  there  is  some  inevitable  connection, 
however  slight,  between  the  form  of  the  thing 
which  it  is  desired  to  impress  on  the  memory  and 
the  picture  with  which  it  is  compared.  My  daugh- 
ter's imagination  is,  of  course,  much  more  vivid 
than  mine,  but,  even  so,  I  cannot  imagine  her  look- 
ing coolly  at  the  naked  D  and  saying,  "Yes,  that 
is  the  old  man  leaning  on  a  stick."  She  is  more 
likely  to  say.  "That  is  the  ground-floor  of  the 
house  with  two  windows."  for  she  has  a  logical 
mind.  And  even  if  she  does  not  remember  the 
futile  picture  of  the  old  man  in  a  long  shirt  with 
his  body  bent  at  right  angles  to  his  legs,  I  don't 
see  why,  even  then,  she  should  connect  him  with 
D.  There  is  nothing  peculiarly  D-ish  about  an 
old  man.  Yet  it  seems  that  I  learned  my  alphabet 
in  this  way.  I  was  a  clever  child,  though  sinful, 
I  fear. 

Then  we  get  on  to  words.  The  book  follows 
the  first  principle  of  all  teachers  of  languages  in 
arranging  that  among  the  first  words  which  the 
child  learns  there  are  as  many  words  as  possible 
which  he  will  never  use  as  a  child,  and,  indeed, 
will  probably  never  encounter  in  his  entire  career. 
Prominent  among  the  first  words  in  this  book  are 
such  favourites  as  pap,  bin,  hob,  sob,  and  sop,  em- 

[30] 


Reading  Without  Tears 

met  and   tome.     Each  of  these  is  printed  three 

times,  in  a  column,  like  this: 

Pat                    Pan  Pap 

PAT                PAN  PAP 

pat                     pan  pap 

Over  each  column  is  a  little  picture.  When  you 
are  teaching  the  child  pap  you  say  to  her:  "P-aP, 
pap — do  you  see  the  pretty  picture?  That  is  a 
nanny  with  a  baby  in  her  lap.  She  is  giving  the 
baby  a  bottle.  The  bottle  has  pap  in  it.  At  least, 
it  is  not  pap,  really,  but  it  is  called  pap  for  the 
purposes  of  the  alphabet.  You  remember  the 
letters,  don't  you?  First  there  is  a  big  P — you 
know,  like  a  man  with  a  pack  on  his  back.  Then  a 
little  a,  which  is  like  a  goose  on  the  water.  Then 
a  little  p;  that  is  like  another  man  coming  to  you 
with  a  pack  on  his  back.  Now  we  have  it  all  in 
big  letters.     Maggie,  read  them  out." 

Maggie  {firmly).     K. 

You.  No,  no,  not  K.  Don't  you  remember  the 
picture? 

Maggie.    Yes,  it  was  a  nanny  with  a  baby. 

You.  No,  not  that  one.  It  was  a  man  with  a 
pack  on  his  back — P. 

Maggie.     P. 

You.    That's  right.    What  comes  next? 

Maggie.    A  goose  on  the  water. 

You.     No,  that  was  a  little  a.     This  is  a  big 

[31] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

letter.  Don't  you  remember  the  dear  little  hut 
with  the  window  upstairs?    What  letter  was  that? 

Maggie.     B. 

You.  No.  no,  that  was  a  house,  not  a  hut,  and 
it  had  two  windows.  Don't  be  so  inaccurate.  This 
is  a  big  A.    Now,  what's  next? 

Maggie.  A  little  house  with  a  nanny  inside. 
And  there's  a  goose  in  the  garden.    And  a  baby. 

You  {patiently) .  No,  this  is  another  P.  He 
is  like  a  man  with  a  pack  on  his  back.  P-A-P  pap 
— there  you  are.    That's  very  good. 

Maggie.     May  I  go  into  the  garden  now? 

You.    Yes. 

After  that  we  learn  sentences,  and  we  raise  in 
the  child's  mind  a  few  more  simple  pictures  of 
Nature  by  repeating  severa-1  times  such  statements 
as: 

A  pig  had  a  fig. 

The  author  introduces  us  to  Ben,  who  can  sup 
sop.  Ben,  however,  has  a  fat  pup,  and  this  pup 
cannot  sip  sop.  My  daughter,  as  I  said,  has  a 
logical  mind,  and  she  immediately  asked  if  Ben's 
pup  could  sup  sop.  She  had  perceived  at  once 
that  if  he  could  neither  sip  nor  sup  the  unfortunate 
animal  was  cut  off  from  sop  altogether.  I  said  I 
didn't  know.  I  don't.  But  I  see  that  Ben  fed 
Poll  on  bun,  so  I  expect  he  gave  the  pup  some  too. 

[32] 


Reading  Without  Tears 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  author  could  not  provide 
pictures  for  some  of  the  more  striking  incidents 
she  records.     Some  of  these  would  do : 

I  met  a  cat  in  a  bog 

I  sat  in  a  bog 

A  hog  is  in  a  bog 

A  wig  is  in  a  bog 

A  pen  is  in  a  bog 

I  had  a  red  bed 

Ten  men  had  a  pen 

I  had  a  wet  hen 

I  fed  ten  men  in  a  den 

I  should  have  thought  that  by  appropriate  illus- 
trations the  child  might  have  been  helped  to  a 
greater  knowledge,  not  only  of  letters,  but  of  life. 

But  perhaps  the  most  vivid  of  all  these  pages  is 
page  99,  which  I  produce  verbatim: 

A  bun  is  in  a  tun 
A  gun  is  in  a  tun 
A  dog  is  in  a  tun 
A  hog  is  in  a  tun 
A  pig  is  in  a  tun 
A  wig  is  in  a  tun 
A  hen  is  in  a  tun 
A  pen  is  in  a  tun 
Note. — Let  the  child  begin  the  book  again,  if  it  likes. 

What  is  a  tun?  Until  I  started  out  to  educate 
my  daughter  I  did  not  know.  But  then,  I  am  not 
a  sinful  child.  For  hush!  it  seems  to  be  a  sort  of 
barrel.    I  have  drawn  rather  a  jolly  tun  myself. 

[33] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

If  we  could  only  look  back  into  our  childish 
minds  and  really  recapture  the  impressions  of  life 
(if  any)  which  inhabitated  us  at  the  end  of  a  day 
when  we  had  triumphantly  mastered  page  99  and 
similar  pages,  and  if  one  could  set  those  impres- 
sions down  in  print,  what  rich  romances  might  be 
born  into  the  world! 

But  is  there  no  Society  for  the  Protection  of 
Children  from  This  Sort  of  Book? 


Ml         /     ^1  ^    ""       T     ^^  \ 


"A  pen  is  in  a  tun.' 


[34] 


On  With  the  Dance 

I  HAVE  been  to  a  dance;  or  rather  I  have 
been  to  a  fashionable  restaurant  where  danc- 
ing is  done.  I  was  not  invited  to  a  dance — 
there  are  very  good  reasons  for  that;  I  was  in- 
vited to  dinner.  But  many  of  my  fellow-guests 
have  invested  a  lot  of  money  in  dancing.  That  is 
to  say,  they  keep  on  paying  dancing-instructors  to 
teach  them  new  tricks;  and  the  dancing-instructors, 
who  know  their  business,  keep  on  inventing  new 
tricks.  As  soon  as  they  have  taught  everybody  a 
new  step  they  say  it  is  unfashionable  and  invent 
a  new  one.  This  is  all  very  well,  but  it  means  that, 
in  order  to  keep  up  with  them  and  get  your 
money's  worth  out  of  the  last  trick  you  learned, 
it  is  necessary  during  its  brief  life  of  respectability 
to  dance  at  every  available  opportunity.  You 
dance  as  many  nights  a  week  as  is  physically  pos- 
sible; you  dance  on  week-days  and  you  dance  on 
Sundays;  you  begin  dancing  in  the  afternoon  and 
you  dance  during  tea  in  the  coffee-rooms  of  ex- 
pensive restaurants,  whirling  your  precarious  way 

[35] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

through  littered  and  abandoned  tea-tables;  and  at 
dinner-time  you  leap  up  madly  before  the  fish  and 
dance  like  variety  artistes  in  a  highly  polished 
arena  before  a  crowd  of  complete  strangers  eating 
their  food;  or,  as  if  seized  with  an  uncontrollable 
craving  for  the  dance,  you  fling  out  after  the  joint 
for  one  wild  gallop  in  an  outer  room,  from  which 
you  return,  perspiring  and  dyspeptic,  to  the  con- 
sumption of  an  ice-pudding,  before  dashing  forth 
to  the  final  orgy  at  a  picture-gallery,  where  the 
walls  are  appropriately  covered  with  pictures  of 
barbaric  women  dressed  for  the  hot  weather. 

That  is  what  happened  at  this  dinner.  As  soon 
as  you  had  started  a  nice  conversation  with  a  lady 
a  sort  of  roaring  was  heard  without;  her  eyes 
gleamed,  her  nostrils  quivered  like  a  horse  plan- 
ning a  gallop,  and  in  the  middle  of  one  of  your 
best  sentences  she  simply  faded  away  with  some 
horrible  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  who 
was  probably  "the  only  man  in  London  who  can 
do  the  Double  Straddle  properly."  This  went  on 
the  whole  of  the  meal,  and  it  made  connected  con- 
versation quite  difficult.  For  my  own  part  I  went 
on  eating,  and  when  I  had  properly  digested  I 
went  out  and  looked  at  the  little  victims  getting 
their  money's  worth. 

From  the  door  of  the  room  where  the  dancing 
was  done  a  confused  uproar  overflowed,  as  if  sev- 

[36] 


On  With  the  Dance 

eral  men  of  powerful  physique  were  banging  a 
number  of  pokers  against  a  number  of  saucepans, 
and  blowing  whistles,  and  occasional  catcalls,  and 
now  and  then  beating  a  drum  and  several  sets  of 
huge  cymbals,  and  ceaselessly  twanging  at  innum- 
erable banjos,  and  at  the  same  time  singing  in  a 
foreign  language,  and  shouting  curses  or  exhorta- 
tions or  street  cries,  or  imitating  hunting-calls  and 
the  cry  of  the  hyena,  or  uniting  suddenly  in  the 
war-whoop  of  some  pitiless  Sudan  tribe. 

It  was  a  really  terrible  noise.  It  hit  you  like 
the  back-blast  of  an  explosion  as  you  entered  the 
room.  There  was  no  distinguishable  tune.  It 
was  simply  an  enormous  noise.  But  there  was 
a  kind  of  savage  rhythm  about  it  which  made  one 
think  immediately  of  Indians  and  fierce  men  and 
the  native  camps  one  used  to  visit  at  the  Earl's 
Court  Exhibition.  And  this  was  not  surprising. 
For  the  musicians  included  one  genuine  negro  and 
three  men  with  their  faces  blacked;  and  the  noise 
and  the  rhythm  were  the  authentic  music  of  a 
negro  village  in  South  Africa,  and  the  words 
which  some  genius  had  once  set  to  the  noise  were 
an  exhortation  to  go  to  the  place  where  the  ne- 
groes dwelt. 

To  judge  by  their  movements,  many  of  the 
dancers  had,  in  fact,  been  there,  and  had  carefully 
studied  the  best  indigenous  models.     They  were 

[37] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

doing  some  quite  extraordinary  things.  No  two 
couples  were  doing  quite  the  same  thing  for  more 
than  a  few  seconds  so  that  there  was  endless  va- 
riety of  extraordinary  postures.  Some  of  them 
shuffled  secretly  along  the  edges  of  the  room,  their 
faces  tense,  their  shoulders  swaying  like  reeds  in 
a  light  wind,  their  progress  almost  imperceptible ; 
they  did  not  rotate,  they  did  not  speak,  but  some- 
times the  tremor  of  a  skirt  or  the  slight  stirring 
of  a  patent-leather  shoe  showed  that  they  were  in- 
deed alive  and  in  motion,  though  that  motion  was 
as  the  motion  of  a  glacier,  not  to  be  measured  in 
minutes  or  yards. 

And  some  in  a  kind  of  fever  rushed  hither  and 
thither  among  the  thick  crowd,  avoiding  disaster 
with  marvellous  dexterity;  and  sometimes  they  re- 
volved slowly  and  sometimes  quickly  and  some- 
times spun  giddily  round  for  a  moment  like  gyro- 
scopic tops.  Then  they  too  would  be  seized  with 
a  kind  of  trance,  or  it  may  be  with  sheer  shortness 
of  breath,  and  hung  motionless  for  a  little  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  while  the  mad  throng  jostled 
and  flowed  about  them  like  the  leaves  in  autumn 
round  a  dead  bird. 

And  some  did  not  revolve  at  all,  but  charged 
straightly  up  and  down ;  and  some  of  these  thrust 
their  loves  forever  before  them,  as  the  Prussians 
thrust  the  villagers  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  and 

[38] 


On  With  the  Dance 

some  forever  navigated  themselves  backwards 
like  moving  breakwaters  to  protect  their  darlings 
from  the  rude,  precipitate  seas. 

Some  of  them  kept  themselves  as  upright  as 
possible,  swaying  slightly  like  willows  from  the 
hips,  and  some  of  them  contorted  themselves  into 
strange  and  angular  shapes,  now  leaning  perilously 
forward  till  they  were  practically  lying  upon  their 
terrified  partners,  and  now  bending  sideways  as 
a  man  bends  who  has  water  in  one  ear  after  bath- 
ing. All  of  them  clutched  each  other  in  a  close 
and  intimate  manner,  but  some,  as  if  by  separation 
to  intensify  the  joy  of  their  union,  or  perhaps  to 
secure  greater  freedom  for  some  particular 
spacious  manoeuvre,  would  part  suddenly  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  and,  clinging  distantly  with 
their  hands,  execute  a  number  of  complicated  side- 
steps in  opposite  directions,  or  aim  a  series  of  vi- 
cious kicks  at  each  other,  after  which  they  would 
reunite  in  a  passionate  embrace  and  gallop  in  a 
frenzy  round  the  room,  or  fall  into  a  trance,  or 
simply  fall  down.  If  they  fell  down  they  lay  still 
for  a  moment  in  the  fearful  expectation  of  death, 
as  men  lie  who  fall  under  a  horse;  and  then  they 
would  creep  on  hands  and  knees  to  the  wall 
through  the  whirling  and  indifferent  crowd. 

Watching  them,  you  could  not  tell  what  any 
one  couple  would  do  next.     The  most  placid  and 

[39] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

dignified  among  them  might  at  any  moment  fling 
a  leg  out  behind  them  and  almost  kneel  in  mutual 
adoration,  and  then,  as  if  nothing  unusual  had 
happened,  shuffle  onward  through  the  press;  or, 
as  though  some  electric  mechanism  had  been  set 
in  motion,  they  would  suddenly  lift  a  foot  side- 
ways and  stand  on  one  leg.  Poised  pathetically, 
as  if  waiting  for  the  happy  signal  when  they  might 
put  the  other  leg  down,  these  men  looked  very  sad, 
and  I  wished  that  the  Medusa's  head  might  be 
smuggled  somehow  into  the  room  for  their  atti- 
tudes to  be  imperishably  recorded  in  cold  stone; 
it  would  have  been  a  valuable  addition  to  modern 
sculpture. 

Upon  this  whirlpool  I  embarked  with  the 
greatest  misgiving  and  a  strange  young  woman 
clinging  to  my  person.  The  noise  was  deafening. 
The  four  black  men  were  now  all  shouting  at  once 
and  playing  all  their  instruments  at  once,  working 
up  to  the  inconceivable  uproar  of  the  finale;  and 
all  the  dancers  began  to  dance  with  a  last  desper- 
ate fury.  Bodies  buffeted  one  from  behind,  and 
while  one  was  yet  looking  round  in  apology  or 
anger  more  bodies  buffeted  one  from  the  flank. 
It  was  like  swimming  in  a  choppy  sea,  where  there 
is  no  time  to  get  the  last  wave  out  of  your  mouth 
before  the  next  one  hits  you. 

Close  beside  us  a  couple  fell  down  with  a  great 

[40] 


On  With  the  Dance 

crash.  I  looked  at  them  with  concern,  but  no  one 
else  took  any  notice.  On  with  the  dance !  Faster 
and  faster  the  black  men  played.  I  was  dimly 
aware  now  that  they  were  standing  on  their  chairs, 
bellowing,  and  fancied  the  end  must  be  near. 
Then  we  were  washed  into  a  quiet  backwater,  in 
a  corner,  and  from  here  I  determined  never  to 
issue  until  the  Last  Banjo  should  indeed  sound. 
Here  I  sidled  vaguely  about  for  a  long  time,  hop- 
ing that  I  looked  like  a  man  preparing  for  some 
culminating  feat,  a  side-step  or  a  buzz  or  a  double 
Jazz-spin  or  an  ordinary  fall  down. 

The  noise  suddenly  ceased;  the  four  black  men 
had  exploded. 

"Very  good  exercise,"  my  partner  said. 

"Quite,"  said  I. 


[41] 


The  Autobiography 

JOHN  ANTONY  GRUNCH  was  one  of  the 
mildest,  most  innocent  men  I  ever  knew.  He 
had  a  wife  to  whom  he  was  devoted  with  a 
dog-like  devotion;  he  went  to  church;  he  was  shy 
and  reserved,  and  he  held  a  mediocre  position  in 
a  firm  of  envelope-makers  in  the  City.  But  he 
had  a  romantic  soul,  and  whenever  the  public 
craving  for  envelopes  fell  off — and  that  is  seldom 
— he  used  to  allay  his  secret  passion  for  danger, 
devilry  and  excitement  by  writing  sensational 
novels.  One  of  these  was  recently  published,  and 
John  Antony  is  now  dead.    The  novel  did  it. 

Yet  it  was  a  very  mild  sort  of  "shocker,"  about 
a  very  ordinary  murder.  The  villian  simply  slew 
one  of  his  typists  in  the  counting-house  with  a 
sword-umbrella  and  concealed  his  guilt  by  putting 
her  in  a  pillar-box.  But  it  had  "power,"  and  it 
was  very  favourably  reviewed.  One  critic  said 
that  "the  author,  who  was  obviously  a  woman, 
had  treated  with  singular  delicacy  and  feeling  the 
ever-urgent   problem    of    female    employment    in 

[42] 


The  Autobiography 

our  great  industrial  centres."  Another  said  that 
the  book  was  "a  brilliant  burlesque  of  the  fashion- 
able type  of  detective  fiction."  Another  wrote 
that  "it  was  a  conscientious  analysis  of  a  perplex- 
ing phase  of  agricultural  life."  John  thought  that 
must  refer  to  the  page  where  he  had  described 
the  allotments  at  Shepherd's  Bush.  But  he  was 
pleased  and  surprised  by  what  they  said. 

What  he  did  not  like  was  interpretation  offered 
by  his  family  and  his  friends,  who  at  once  decided 
that  the  work  was  the  autobiography  of  John  An- 
tony. You  see,  the  scene  was  laid  in  London,  and 
John  lived  in  London;  the  murdered  girl  was  a 
typist,  and  there  were  two  typists  in  John's  office; 
and,  to  crown  all,  the  villian  in  the  book  had  a 
boar-hound,  and  John  himself  had  a  Skye  terrier. 
The  thing  was  as  plain  as  could  be.  Men  he  met 
in  the  City  said,  "How's  that  boar-hound  of 
yours?"  or  "I  like  that  bit  where  you  hit  the 
policeman.  When  did  you  do  that?"  "You," 
mark  you.  Old  friends  took  him  aside  and  whis- 
pered, "Very  sorry  to  hear  you  don't  hit  it  off  with 
Mrs.  Grunch;  I  always  thought  you  were  such 
a  happy  couple."  His  wife's  family  said,  "Poor 
Gladys !  what  a  life  she  must  have  had !"  His  own 
family  said,  "Poor  John !  what  a  life  she  must 
have  led  him  to  make  him  go  off  with  that  adven- 
turess!" Several  people  identified  the  adventuress 

[43] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

as  Miss  Crook,  the  Secretary  of  the  local  Mother's 
Welfare  League,  of  which  John  was  a  vice-presi- 
dent. 

The  fog  of  suspicion  swelled  and  spread  and 
penetrated  into  every  cranny  and  level  of  society. 
No  servants  would  come  near  the  house,  of  if  they 
did  they  soon  stumbled  on  a  copy  of  the  shocker 
while  doing  the  drawing-room,  read  it  voraciously 
and  rushed  screaming  out  of  the  front  door. 
When  he  took  a  parcel  of  washing  to  the  post- 
office  the  officials  refused  to  accept  it  until  he  had 
opened  it  and  shown  that  there  were  no  bodies 
in  it. 

The  animal  kingdom  is  very  sensitive  to  the 
suspicion  of  guilt.  John  noticed  that  dogs  avoided 
him,  horses  neighed  at  him,  earwigs  fled  from  him 
in  horror,  caterpillars  madly  spun  themselves 
into  cocoons  as  he  approached,  owls  hooted,  snakes 
hissed.     Only  Mrs.  Grunch  remained  faithful. 

But  one  morning  at  breakfast  Mrs.  Grunch 
said,  "Pass  the  salt,  please,  John.'1  John  didn't 
hear.  He  was  reading  a  letter.  Mrs.  Grunch 
said  again,  "Pass  the  salt,  please,  John."  John 
was  still  engrossed.  Mrs.  Grunch  wanted  the  salt 
pretty  badly,  so  she  got  up  and  fetched  it.  As 
she  did  so  she  noticed  that  the  handwriting  of  the 
letter  was  the  handwriting  of  A  Woman.  Worse, 
it  was   written   on   the    embossed   paper   of    the 

[44] 


The  Autobiography 

Mother's  Welfare  League.  It  must  be  from 
Miss  Crook.  And  it  was.  It  was  about  the  an- 
nual outing.  "Ah,  ha!"  said  Mrs.  Grunch.  (I 
am  afraid  that  "Ah,  ha!"  doesn't  really  convey 
to  you  the  sort  of  sound  she  made,  but  you  must 
just  imagine.)  "Ah,  ha!  So  that's  why  you 
couldn't  pass  the  salt!" 

Mad  with  rage,  hatred,  fear,  chagrin,  pique, 
jealousy  and  indigestion,  John  rushed  out  of  the 
house  and  went  to  the  office.  At  the  door  of  the 
office  he  met  one  of  the  typists.  He  held  the 
door  open  for  her.  She  simpered  and  refused  to 
go  in  front  of  him.  Being  still  mad  with  rage, 
hatred,  chagrin  and  all  those  other  things,  John 
made  a  cross  gesture  with  his  umbrella.  With  a 
shrill,  shuddering  shriek  of  "Murder!"  the  girl 
cantered  violently  down  Ludgate  Hill  and  was 
never  seen  again.  Entering  the  office,  John  found 
two  detectives  waiting  to  ask  him  a  few  questions 
in  connection  with  the  Newcastle  Pig-sty  Mur- 
der, which  had  been  done  with  some  pointed  in- 
strument, probably  an  umbrella. 

After  that  The  Daily  Horror  rang  up  and 
asked  if  he  would  contribute  an  article  to  their 
series  on  "Is  Bigamy  Worth  While?" 

Having  had  enough  rushing  for  one  day  John 
walked  slowly  out  into  the  street,  trying  to  re- 
member the  various  ways  in  which  his  characters 

[45] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

had  committed  suicide.  He  threw  himself  over 
the  Embankment  wall  into  the  river,  but  fell  in  a 
dinghy  which  he  had  not  noticed;  he  bought  some 
poison,  but  the  chemist  recognised  his  face  from 
a  photograph  in  the  Literary  Column  of  The 
Druggist  and  gave  him  ipecacuanha  (none  of  you 
can  spell  that)  ;  he  thought  of  cutting  his  throat, 
but  broke  his  thumb-nail  trying  to  open  the  big 
blade,  and  gave  it  up.  Desperate,  he  decided  to 
go  home.  At  Victoria  he  was  hustled  along  the 
platform  on  the  pretence  that  there  is  more  room 
in  the  rear  of  trains.  Finally  he  was  hustled  on 
to  the  line  and  electrocuted. 

And  everybody  said,  "So  it  was  true." 


[46] 


The  White  Spat 

WHEN  it  is  remembered  how  large  a  part 
has  been  played  in  history  by  revolution- 
ary and  political  songs  it  is  both  lament- 
able and  strange  that  at  the  present  time  only 
one  of  the  numerous  political  faiths  has  a  hymn 
of  its  own — "The  Red  Flag."  The  author  of  the 
words  owes  a  good  deal,  I  should  say,  to  the 
author  of  "Rule  Britannia,"  though  I  am  inclined 
to  think  he  has  gone  one  better.  The  tune  is  that 
gentle  old  tune  which  we  used  to  know  as  "Mary- 
land," and  by  itself  it  rather  suggests  a  number 
of  tired  sheep  waiting  to  go  through  a  gate  than  a 
lot  of  people  thinking  very  redly.  I  fancy  the 
author  realised  this,  and  he  has  got  over  it  by  put- 
ting in  some  good  powerful  words  like  "scarlet," 
"traitors,"  "flinch"  and  "dungeon,"  whenever  the 
tune  is  particularly  sheepish.  The  effect  is  effect- 
ive. Just  imagine  if  the  Middle  Classes  Union 
could  march  down  the  middle  of  the  Strand  sing- 
ing that  fine  chorus : — 

"Then  raise  the  scarlet  standard  high 
Beneath  its  shade  we'll  live  and  die; 
Though  cowards  flinch  and  traitors  sneer 
We'll  keep  the  Red  Flag  flying  here." 

[47] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Well,  I  have  set  myself  to  supply  some  other 
parties  with  songs,  and  I  have  begun  with  "The 
White  Spat,"  which  is  to  be  the  party-hymn  of  the 
High  Tories  (if  any).  I  have  written  it  to  the 
same  tune  as  "The  Red  Flag,"  because,  when  the 
lion  finally  does  lie  down  with  the  lamb,  it  will 
be  much  more  convenient  if  they  can  bleat  and 
roar  in  the  same  metre,  and  I  shall  hope  to  hear 
Mr.  Robert  Williams  and  Lord  Robert  Cecil  sing- 
ing these  two  songs  at  once  one  day.  I  am  not 
wholly  satisfied  with  "The  White  Spat,"  but  I 
think  I  have  caught  the  true  spirit,  or,  at  any 
rate,  the  proper  inconsequence  of  these  things: — 

The  White  Spat. 

Air — Maryland. 

The  spats  we  wear  are  pure  as  snow — 
We  are  so  careful  where  we  go ; 
We  don't  go  near  the  vulgar  bus 
Because  it  always  splashes  us. 

Chorus.  We  take  the  road  with  trustful  hearts, 
Avoiding  all  the  messy  parts,; 
However  dirty  you  may  get 
We'll  keep  the  White  Spat  spotless  yet. 

At  night  there  shines  a  special  star 
To  show  us  where  the  puddles  are; 
The  crossing-sweeper  sweeps  the  floor — 
That's  what  the  crossing-sweeper's  for. 

Chorus.  Then  take  the  road,  etc.,  etc. 

[48] 


The  White  Spat 

I  know  it  doesn't  look  much,  just  written  down 
on  paper;  but  you  try  singing  it  and  you'll  find 
you're  carried  away. 

Of  course  there  ought  to  be  an  international 
verse,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  compete  with  the  one 
in  my  model : — 

"Look  round :  the  Frenchman  loves  its  blaze, 
The  sturdy  German  chants  its  praise; 
In  Moscow's  vaults  its  hymns  are  sung; 
Chicago  swells  the  surging  throng." 

"From  Russia's  snows  to  Afric's  sun 
The  race  of  spatriots  is  one; 
One  faith  unites  their  alien  blood — 
There's  nothing  to  be  said  for  mud." 

Now  we  have  the  song  of  the  Wee  Frees.  I 
wanted  this  to  be  rather  pathetic,  but  I'm  not  sure 
that  I  haven't  overdone  it.  The  symbolism, 
though,  is  well-nigh  perfect,  and,  after  all,  the 
symbolism  is  the  chief  thing.  This  goes  to  the 
tune  of  "Annie  Laurie" : — 

The  Old  Black  Brolly. 
Air — Annie  Laurie 

Under  the  Old  Umbrella, 

Beneath  the  leaking  gamp, 
Wrapped  up  in  woolly  phrases 

We  battle  with  the  damp. 

Come,  gather  round  the  gamp! 
Observe,  it  is  pre-war; 

[49] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

And  beneath  the  old  Black  Brolly 
There's  room  for  several  more. 

Shameless  calumniators 

Calumniate  like  mad; 
Detractors  keep  detracting; 

It  really  is  too  bad  ; 

It  really  is  too  bad. 
To  show  we're  not  quite  dead, 

We  wave  the  old  Black  Brolly 
And  hit  them  on  the  head. 

Then  we  have  the  Nationalist  Party.  I  am 
rather  vague  about  the  National  Party,  but  I 
know  they  are  frightfully  military,  and  they  keep 
on  having  Mass  Rallies  in  Kensington — complete 
with  drums,  I  expect.  Where  all  the  masses  come 
from  I  don't  quite  know,  as  a  prolonged  search 
has  failed  to  reveal  anyone  who  knows  anyone  who 
is  actually  a  member  of  the  party.  Everybody 
tells  me,  though,  that  there  is  at  least  one  Brig- 
adier-General (Tempy. )  mixed  up  with  it,  if  not 
two,  and  at  least  one  Lord,  though  possibly  one 
of  the  Brigadiers  is  the  same  as  the  Lord;  but 
after  all  they  represent  the  Nation,  so  they  ought 
to  have  a  song.  They  have  nothing  but  "Rule 
Britannia"  now,  I  suppose. 

Their  song  goes  to  the  tune  of  "The  British 
Grenadiers."  I  have  written  it  as  a  duet,  but 
no  doubt  other  parts  could  be  added  if  the  oc- 
casion should  ever  arise.* 


*  I   understand  that  it  has  not  arisen.     On  the  contrary 
[50] 


The  White  Spat 

The  National. 

Air — The  British  Grenadiers. 

Some  talk  of  Coalitions, 

Of  Tories  and  all  that ; 
They  are  but  cheap  editions 

Of  the  one  and  only  Nat. ; 
Our  Party  has  no  equals, 

Though  of  course  it  has  its  peers, 
With  a  tow,  row,  row,  row,  row,  row 

For  the  British  Brigadiers. 

You  have  no  idea  how  difficult  it  is  to  write 
down  the  right  number  of  rows  first  time;  however 
I  daresay  the  General  wouldn't  mind  a  few  extra 
ones. 

We  represent  the  Nation 

As  no  one  else  can  do; 
Without  exaggeration 

Our  membership  is  two, 
We  rally  in  our  masses 

And   give   three  hearty   cheers, 
With  a  tow,  row,  row,  row,  low,  row 

For  the  National  Brigadiers. 

There  could  be  a  great  deal  more  of  that,  but 
perhaps  you  have  had  enough. 

Of  course,  if  you  don't  think  the  poetry  of  my 
songs  is  good  enough,  I  shall  just  have  to  quote 
some  of  "The  International"  words  to  show  you 
that  it's  the  tune  that  matters. 

[51] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Here  you  are  : — 

"Arise!  ye  starvelings  from  your  slumbers, 
Arise!  ye  criminals  of  want, 
For  reason  in  revolt  now  thunders, 
And  at  last  ends  the  age  of  cant." 

If  people  can  grow  excited  singing  that,  my 
songs  would  send  them  crazy. 

Then  there  is  the  Coalition.  I  have  had  a  good 
deal  of  difficulty  about  this,  but  I  think  that  at 
last  I  have  hit  the  right  note ;  all  my  first  efforts 
were  too  dignified.     This  goes  to  a  darkie  tune : — 

The  Piebald  Mare. 

Air — Camptoivn  Ladies. 

Down-town  darkies  all  declare, 

Doo-dah,   doo-dah, 
There  never  was  a  hoss  like  the  piebald  mare 

Doo-dah.  doo-dah  day! 
One  half  dark  and  the  other  half  pale, 

Doo-dah.   doo-dah, 
Two  fat  heads  and  a  great  big  tail, 

Doo-dah.  doo-dah  day! 

Chorus.    Gwine  to  run  all  night, 
Gwine  to  run  all  day! 
I  put  my  money  on  the  piebald  mare 
Because  she  run  both  way. 


Little  old  Dave  he  ride  that  hoss, 
Doo-dah,   doo-dah, 


[52] 


The  White  Spat 


Where'll  she  be  if  he  takes  a  toss? 

Doo-dah,  doo-dah  day! 
De  people  try  to  push  him  oft, 

Doo-dah,  doo-dah, 
De  more  dey  push  de  more  he  scoff, 

Doo-dah,  doo-dah  day! 

Chorus.    Gwine  to  run,  etc. 

Over  the  largest  fence  they  bound, 

Doo-dah,   doo-dah, 
Things  exploding  all  around ! 

Doo-dah,  doo-dah  day! 
One  line  day  dat  hoss  will  burst, 

Doo-dah,   doo-dah, 
But  little  old  Dave  he'll  walk  in  first, 

Doo-dah,  doo-dah  day! 

Chorus.    Gwine  to  run,  etc. 

Once  again,  merely  written  down,  the  words 
do  not  thrill,  but  I  hope  none  of  the  parties  will 
definitely  reject  these  hymns  till  they  have  heard 
them  actually  sung:  if  necessary  I  will  give  a 
trial  rendering  myself. 

The  other  day,  when  we  were  playing  charades 
and  had  to  act  L,  we  did  Lloyd  George  and  the 
Coalition;  and  the  people  who  were  acting  the 
Coalition  sang  the  above  song  with  really  wonder- 
ful effect.  It  is  true  that  the  other  side  thought 
we  were  acting  Legion  and  the  Gadarene  Su-ine, 
but  that  must  have  been   because   of  something 

[53] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

faulty  in  our  make-up.  The  sound  of  this  great 
anthem  was  sufficiently  impressive  to  make  one 
long  to  hear  the  real  Coalition  shouting  it  all  along 
Downing  Street.  It  is  a  solo  with  chorus,  you 
understand,  and  the  Coalition  come  in  with  a 
great  roar  of  excitement  and  fervour  on  doo-dah! 
doo-dah! 

Yes,  I  like  that. 


[54] 


The  Art  of  Drawing 

IT  is  commonly  said  that  everybody  can  sing  in 
the  bathroom;  and  this  is  true.  Singing  is 
very  easy.  Drawing,  though,  is  much  more 
difficult.  I  have  devoted  a  good  deal  of  time  to 
Drawing,  one  way  and  another;  I  have  to  attend 
a  great  many  committees  and  public  meetings, 
and  at  such  functions  I  find  that  Drawing  is  almost 
the  only  Art  one  can  satisfactorily  pursue  during 
the  speeches.  One  really  cannot  sing  during  the 
speeches;  so  as  a  rule  I  draw.  I  do  not  say 
that  I  am  an  expert  yet,  but  after  a  few  more 
meetings  I  calculate  that  I  shall  know  Drawing 
as  well  as  it  can  be  known. 

The  first  thing,  of  course,  is  to  get  on  to  a  really 
good  committee;  and  by  a  good  committee  I  mean 
a  committee  that  provides  decent  materials.  An 
ordinary  departmental  committee  is  no  use;  gen- 
erally they  only  give  you  a  couple  of  pages  of 
lined  foolscap  and  no  white  blotting-paper,  and 
very  often  the  pencils  are  quite  soft.  White  blot- 
ting-paper is  essential.    I  know  of  no  material  the 

[55] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

spoiling  of  which  gives  so  much  artistic  pleasure — 
except  perhaps  snow.  Indeed,  if  I  was  asked  to 
choose  between  making  pencil-marks  on  a  sheet 
of  white  blotting-paper  and  making  foot-marks 
on  a  sheet  of  white  snow  I  shall  be  in  a  quandary. 

Much  of  the  best  committees  from  the  point  of 
view  of  material  are  committees  about  business 
which  meet  at  business  premises — shipping  offices, 
for  choice.  One  of  the  Pacific  Lines  has  the  best 
white  blotting-paper  I  know;  and  the  pencils  there 
are  a  dream.  I  am  sure  the  directors  of  that  firm 
are  Drawers;  for  they  always  give  you  two  pencils, 
one  hard  for  doing  noses,  and  one  soft  for  doing 
hair. 

When  you  have  selected  your  committee 
and  the  speeches  are  well  away,  the  Draw- 
ing begins.  Much  the  best  thing  to  draw 
is  a  man.  Not  the  chairman,  or  Lord  Pom- 
mery  Quint,  or  any  member  of  the  com- 
mittee,  but  just  A  Man.  Many  novices 
make  the  mistake  of  selecting  a  subject  for  their 
Art  before  they  begin.  Usually  they  select  the 
chairman;  and  when  they  find  it  is  more 
like  Mr.  Gladstone  they  are  discouraged. 
If  they  had  waited  a  little  it  could  have 
been  Mr.  Gladstone  officially. 

As  a  rule  I  begin  with  the  forehead 
and  work  down  to  the  chin    (Fig.    i).        Fig  2 
IS6] 


The  Art  of  Drawing 

When  I  have  done  the  outline  I  put  in  the  eye. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts  of  Drawing; 
one  is  never  quite  sure  where  the  eye  goes.  If, 
however,  it  is  not  a  good  eye,  a  useful  tip  is  to  give 
the  man  spectacles;  this  generally  makes  him  a 
clergyman,  but  it  helps  the  eye  (Fig.  2). 

Now  you  have  to  outline  the  rest  of  the  head, 
and  this  is  rather  a  gamble.  Personally,  I  go  in 
for  strong  heads.     (Fig.  3). 

I  am  afraid  it  is  not  a  strong  neck;  I  expect  he 
is  an  author,  and  is  not  well  fed.  But  that  is  the 
worst  of  strong  heads;  they  make  it  so  difficult  to 
join  up  the  chin  and  the  back  of  the  neck. 

The  next  thing  to  do  is  to  put  in 
the  ear;  and  once  you  have  done  this 
the  rest  is  easy.  Ears  are  much  more 
difficult  than  eyes  ( Fig.  4) . 

I  hope  that  is  right.  It  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  little  too  far  to  the  south- 
ward. But  it  is  done  now.  And  once 
you  have  put  in  the  ear  you  can't  go  back:  not 
unless  you  are  on  a  very  good  committee  which 
provides  india-rubber  as  well  as  pencils. 

Now  I  do  the  hair.  Hair  may  either  be  very 
fuzzy  and  black,  or  lightish  and  thin.  It  depends 
chiefly  on  what  sort  of  pencils  are  provided.  For 
myself  I  prefer  black  hair,  because  then  the  part- 
ing shows  up  better  (Fig.  5). 

[57] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Until  one  draws  hair,  one  never  realizes  what 
large  heads  people  have.     Doing  the  hair  takes 


Fig.  4 

the  whole  of  a  speech,  usually  even  one  of  the 
chairman's  speeches. 


Fig.  6 

This  is  not  one  of  my  best  men;  I  am  sure  the 
ear  is  in  the  wrong  place.  And  I  am  inclined  to 
think  he  ought  to  have  spectacles.  Only  then  he 
would  be  a  clergyman,  and  I  have  decided  that  he 
is  Sir  Philip  Gibbs  at  the  age  of  twenty.  So  he 
must  carry  on  with  his  eye  as  it  is. 

I  find  that  all  my  best  men  face  to  the  west; 
it  is  a  curious  thing.  Sometimes  I  draw  two  men 
facing  each  other;  but  the  one  facing  east  is  never 
good. 

[58] 


The  Art  of  Drawing 

There,  you  see  (Fig  6)  ?  The  one  on  the  right 
is  a  Bolshevik;  he  has  a  low  forehead  and  beetling 
brows — a  most  unpleasant  man.  Yet  he  has  a 
powerful  face.  The  one  on  the  left  was  meant 
to  be  another  Bolshevik,  arguing  with  him.  But 
he  has  turned  out  to  be  a  lady,  so  I  have  had  to 
give  her  a  "bun."  She  is  a  lady  solicitor;  but  I 
don't  know  how  she  came  to  be  talking  to  the 
Bolshevik.  Here  are  some  more  men  facing  east. 
They  are  all  a  little  unconvincing,  you  see. 


When  you  have  learned  how  to  do  Men,  the 
only  other  things  in  Drawing  are  Perspective 
and  Landscape. 


Fig.  7 


[59] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Perspective  is  great  fun :  the  best  thing  to  do  is 
a  long  French  road  with  telegraph  poles  (Fig.  7). 

I  have  put  in  a  fence  as  well.    Unstable,  I  fear. 

Landscape  is  chiefly  composed  of  hills  and  trees. 
Trees  are  the  most  amusing,  especially  fluffy  trees. 

Here  is  a  Landscape  (Fig.  8). 

Somehow  or  other  a  man  has  got  into  this  land- 
scape; and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  it  is  Napoleon. 
Apart  from  this  it  is  not  a  bad  one. 


Fig.  8 

But  it  takes  a  very  long  speech  to  get  an  am- 
bitious piece  of  work  like  this  through. 

There  is  one  other  thing  I  ought  to  have  said. 
Never  attempt  to  draw  a  man  front-face.  It 
can't  be  done. 


[60] 


About  Bathrooms 

OF  all  the  beautiful  things  which  are  to  be 
seen  in  shop  windows  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  are  those  luxurious  baths  in  white 
enamel,  hedged  around  with  attachments  and  con- 
veniences in  burnished  metal.  Whenever  I  see 
one  of  them  I  stand  and  covet  it  for  a  long  time. 
Yet  even  these  super-baths  fall  far  short  of  what 
a  bath  should  be ;  and  as  for  the  perfect  bathroom 
I  question  if  anyone  has  even  imagined  it. 

The  whole  attitude  of  modern  civilization  to 
the  bathroom  is  wrong.  Why,  for  one  thing,  is  it 
always  the  smallest  and  barest  room  in  the  house? 
The  Romans  understood  these  things;  we  don't. 
I  have  never  yet  been  in  a  bathroom  which  was 
big  enough  to  do  my  exercises  in  without  either 
breaking  the  light  or  barking  my  knuckles  against 
a  wall.  It  ought  to  be  a  big  room  and  opulently 
furnished.  There  ought  to  be  pictures  in  it,  so 
that  one  could  lie  back  and  contemplate  them — a 
picture  of  troops  going  up  to  the  trenches,  and 
another  picture  of  a  bus-queue  standing  in  the  rain, 

[61] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

and  another  picture  of  a  windy  day  with  some 
snow  in  it.  Then  one  would  really  enjoy  one's 
baths. 

And  there  ought  to  be  rich  rugs  in  it  and  pro- 
found chairs;  one  would  walk  about  in  bare  feet 
on  the  rich  rugs  while  the  bath  was  running;  and 
one  would  sit  in  the  profound  chairs  while  drying 
the  ears. 

The  fact  is,  a  bathroom  ought  to  be  equipped 
for  comfort,  like  a  drawing-room,  a  good,  full, 
velvety  room;  and  as  things  are  it  is  solely 
equipped  for  singing.  In  the  drawing-room, 
where  we  want  to  sing,  we  put  so  many  curtains 
and  carpets  and  things  that  most  of  us  can't  sing 
at  all;  and  then  we  wonder  that  there  is  no  music 
in  England.  Nothing  is  more  maddening  than  to 
hear  several  men  refusing  to  join  in  a  simple 
chorus  after  dinner,  when  you  know  perfectly 
well  that  every  one  of  them  has  been  singing  in 
a  high  tenor  in  his  bath  before  dinner.  We  all 
know  the  reason,  but  we  don't  take  the  obvious 
remedy.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  take  all  the 
furniture  out  of  the  drawing-room  and  put  it 
in  the  bathroom — all  except  the  piano  and  a 
few  cane  chairs.  Then  we  shouldn't  have  those 
terrible  noises  in  the  early  morning,  and  in  the 
evening  everybody  would  be  a  singer.  I  suppose 
that  is  what  they  do  in  Wales. 

[62] 


About  Bathrooms 

But  if  we  cannot  make  the  bathroom  what  it 
ought  to  be,  the  supreme  and  perfect  shrine  of 
the  supreme  moment  of  the  day,  the  one  spot  in 
the  house  on  which  no  expense  or  trouble  is  spared, 
we  can  at  least  bring  the  bath  itself  up  to  date. 
I  don't  now,  as  I  did,  lay  much  stress  on  having 
a  bath  with  fifteen  different  taps.  I  once  stayed 
in  a  house  with  a  bath  like  that.  There  was 
a  hot  tap  and  a  cold  tap,  and  hot  sea-water  and 
cold  sea-water,  and  plunge  and  spray  and 
shower  and  wave  and  FLOOD,  and  one  or  two 
more.  To  turn  on  the  top  tap  you  had  to  stand 
on  a  step-ladder,  and  they  were  all  very  highly 
polished.  I  was  naturally  excited  by  this,  and  an 
hour  before  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner  I 
slunk  upstairs  and  hurried  into  the  bathroom  and 
locked  myself  in  and  turned  on  all  the  taps  at 
once.  It  was  strangely  disappointing.  The  sea- 
water  was  mythical.  Many  of  the  taps  refused  to 
function  at  the  same  time  as  any  other,  and  the 
only  two  which  were  really  effective  were  WAVE 
and  flood.  Wave  shot  out  a  thin  jet  of  boiling 
water  which  caught  me  in  the  chest,  and  flood 
filled  the  bath  with  cold  water  long  before  it  could 
be  identified  and  turned  off. 

No,  taps  are  not  of  the  first  importance,  though, 
properly  polished,  they  look  well.  But  no  bath 
is  complete  without  one  of  these  attractive  bridges 

[63] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

or  trays  where  one  puts  the  sponges  and  the  soap. 
Conveniences  like  that  are  a  direct  stimulus  to 
washing.  The  first  time  I  met  one  I  washed  my- 
self all  over  two  or  three  times  simply  to  make 
the  most  of  knowing  where  the  soap  was.  Now 
and  then,  in  fact,  in  a  sort  of  bravado  I  deliber- 
ately lost  it,  so  as  to  be  able  to  catch  it  again  and 
put  it  back  in  full  view  on  the  tray.  You  can  also 
rest  your  feet  on  the  tray  when  you  are  washing 
them,  and  so  avoid  cramp. 

Again  I  like  a  bathroom  where  there  is  an 
electric  bell  just  above  the  bath,  which  you  can 
ring  with  the  big  toe.  This  is  for  use  when  one 
has  gone  to  sleep  in  the  bath  and  the  water  is 
frozen,  or  when  one  has  begun  to  commit  suicide 
and  thought  better  of  it.  Apart  from  these  two 
occasions  it  can  be  used  for  Morsing  instructions 
about  breakfast  to  the  cook — supposing  you  have 
a  cook.  And  if  you  haven't  a  cook  a  little  bell- 
ringing  in  the  basement  does  no  harm. 

But  the  most  extraordinary  thing  about  the 
modern  bath  is  that  there  is  no  provision  for 
shaving  in  it.  Shaving  in  the  bath  I  regard  as  the 
last  word  in  systematic  luxury.  But  in  the  ordin- 
ary bath  it  is  very  difficult.  There  is  nowhere  to 
put  anything.  There  ought  to  be  a  kind  of  shav- 
ing tray  attached  to  every  bath,  which  you  could 
swing  in  on  a  flexible  arm,  complete  with  mirror 

[64] 


About  Bathrooms 

and  soap  and  strop,  new  blades  and  shaving-papers 
and  all  the  other  confounded  paraphernalia. 
Then,  I  think,  shaving  would  be  almost  tolerable, 
and  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  of  these  horrible 
beards  about. 

The  same  applies  to  smoking.  It  is  incredible 
that  to-day  in  the  twentieth  century  there  should 
be  no  recognised  way  of  disposing  of  cigarette- 
ends  in  the  bath.  Personally  I  only  smoke  pipes  in 
the  bath,  but  it  is  impossible  to  find  a  place  in 
which  to  deposit  even  a  pipe  so  that  it  will  not 
roll  off  into  the  water.  But  I  have  a  brother-in- 
law  who  smokes  cigars  in  the  bath,  a  disgusting 
habit.  I  have  often  wondered  where  he  hid  the 
ends,  and  I  find  now  that  he  has  made  a  cache  of 
them  in  the  gas-ring  of  the  geyser.  One  day  the 
ash  will  get  into  the  burners  and  then  the  geyser 
will  explode. 

Next  door  to  the  shaving  and  smoking  tray 
should  be  the  book-rest.  I  don't  myself  do  much 
reading  in  the  bath,  but  I  have  several  sisters-in- 
law  who  keep  on  coming  to  stay,  and  they  all  do 
it.  Few  things  make  the  leaves  of  a  book  stick  to- 
gether so  easily  as  being  dropped  in  a  hot  bath, 
so  they  had  better  have  a  book-rest;  and  if  they 
go  to  sleep  I  shall  set  in  motion  my  emergency 
waste  mechanism,  by  which  the  bath  can  be 
emptied  in  malice  from  outside. 

[65] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Another  of  my  inventions  is  the  Progress  In- 
dicator. It  works  like  the  indicators  outside  lifts, 
which  show  where  the  lift  is  and  what  it  is  doing. 
My  machine  shows  what  stage  the  man  inside  has 
reached — the  washing  stage  or  the  merely  wallow- 
ing stage,  or  the  drying  stage,  or  the  exercises 
stage.  It  shows  you  at  a  glance  whether  it  is 
worth  while  to  go  back  to  bed  or  whether  it  is 
time  to  dig  yourself  in  on  the  mat.  The  machine 
is  specially  suitable  for  hotels  and  large  country 
houses  where  you  can't  find  out  by  hammering  on 
the  door  and  asking,  because  nobody  takes  any 
notice. 

When  you  have  properly  fitted  out  the  bathroom 
on  these  lines  all  that  remains  is  to  put  the  tele- 
phone in  and  have  your  meals  there;  or  rather  to 
have  your  meals  there  and  not  put  the  telephone 
in.  It  must  still  remain  the  one  room  where  a 
man  is  safe  from  that. 


[66] 


A  Criminal  Type 

TO-DAY  I  am  MAKing  aN  inno6£vation. 
as  you  mayalready  have  guessed,  I  am  typing 
this  article  myself  Zz^lnstead  of  writing  it, 
The  idea  is  to  save  time  and  exvBKpense,  also  to 
demonstyap  demonBTrike=  =damn,  to  demon- 
strate) that  I  can  type  /ust  as  well  as  any  blessed 
girl  if  I  give  my  mind  to  iT"  "  Typing  while 
you  compose  is  really  extraoraordinarrily  easy, 
though  composing  whilr  you  typE  is  more  difficut. 
I  rather  think  my  typing  style  is  going  to  be  dif- 
ferent froM  my  u6sual  style,  but  Idaresay  noone 
will  mind  that  much,  looking  back  i  see  that  we 
made  rather  a  hash  of  that  awfuul  wurd  extraor- 
ordinnaryk?  in  the  middle  of  a  woRd  like  thaton 
N-e  gets  quite  lost?  2hy  do  I  keep  putting  ques- 
tionmarks  instead  of  fulstopSI  wonder.  Now 
you  see  i  have  put  a  fulllstop  instead  Of  a  ques- 
tion mark  it  nevvvver  reins  but  it  yours. 

the  typewriter  to  me  has  always  been  a  mus- 
tery£?  and  even  now  that  I  have  gained  a  perfect 
mastery  over  the  machine  in  gront  of  me  i  have 

[67] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

npt  th3  faintest  idea  hoW  it  workss%  &or  in- 
stance why  does  the  thingonthetop  the  kind  of 
overhead  Wailway  arrangement  move  along  one 
pace  afterr  every  word;  I  haVe  exam  aaa  ined 
the  mechanism  from  all  points  of  view  but  there 
seeems  to  be  noreason  atall  whyit  shouould  do 
t£is  .  damn  that  £,  it  keeps  butting  in:  it  is  Just, 
lik  real  life,  then  there  are  all  kinds  oF  attractive 
devisesand  levers  andbuttons  of  which  is  amanvel 
in  itself,  and  does  something  useful  without  lettin 
on  how  it  does  iT. 

Forinstance  on  this  machinE  which  is  Ami/et 
a  mijge7  imean  a  mi/dgt,made  of  alumium,,  and 
very  light  sothat  you  caN  CARRY  it  about  on 
your  £olidays  (there  is  that  £  again)  and  typeout 
your  poems  onthe  Moon  immmmediately,  and 
there  is  onely  one  lot  of  keys  for  capITals  and 
ordinay  latters;  when  you  want  todoa  Capital 
you  press  down  a  special  key  marked  cap  i  mean 
CAP  with  the  lefft  hand  and  V07  press  down 
the  letter  withthe  other,  like  that  abed,  no, 
ABCDEFG  .  how  jolly  that  looks  .  as  a  mattr 
of  fact  th  is  takes  a  little  gettingintoas  all  the 
letters  on  the  keys  are  printed  incapitals  so  now 
and  then  one  forgets  topress  downthe  SPecial 
capit  al  key.  not  often,  though,  on  the  other 
hand  onceone  £as  got  it  down  and  has  written 
anice  nam  e  in  capitals  like  LLOYdgeORGE  IT 

[68] 


A  Criminal  Type 

IS  VERY  DIFFICULT  TO  REmemBER  TO 
PUT  IT  DOWN  AGAIN  ANDTHE  N  YOU 
GET  THIS  SORT  OF  THING  WHICH 
SPOILS  THE  LOOOK  OF  THE  HOLE 
PAGE  .  or  els  insted  of  preSSing  down  the  key 
marked  CAP  onepresses  down  the  key  m  arked 
FIG  and  then  instead  of  LLOYDGEORGE  you 
find  that  you  have  written  ^96%  :  394:3.  this  is 
very  dissheartening  and  £t  is  no  wonder  that 
typists  are  sooften  sououred  in  ther  youth. 

Apart  fromthat  though  the  key  marked  FIG  is 
rather  fun  ,  since  you  can  rite  such  amusing  things 
withit,  things  like  Jo  and  @  and  dear  old  &  not  to 
mention  =  and  ^  and  f  and  !  !  !  i  find  that  inones 
ordinarry  (i  never  get  that  word  right)  cor  orres- 
ponden£c  one  doesnt  use  expressions  like  @@  and 
Jo  Jo  Jo  nearly  enough,  typewriting  gives  you  a 
new  ideaof  possibilities  o  fthe  engli£h  language; 
thE  more  i  look  at  Jo  the  more  beautiful  it  seems 
to  Be :  and  like  the  simple  flowers  of  england  itis 
per£aps  most  beauti£ul  when  seeen  in  the  masss, 
Look  atit 

%  %  %  %  %  %  %  Jo  %  %  Jo  % 
Jo  Jo  %  %  %  %%  %  %  %  %  % 
%  %  %    %  %  %  %  %  %  %  %  % 

Jo     %  %   %  %  %  %  %  %   %  %     % 

%  Jo    Jo     Jo    Jo    Jo    Jo    Jo    J0    Jo    Jo    Jo 

how  would   thatdo    for   a    BAThrooM    wall- 

[69] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

paper?  it  could  be  produced  verery  cheaply  and 
itcould  be  calld  the  CHERRYdesigN  damn, 
imeant  to  put  all  that  in  capitals,  iam  afraid  this 
articleis  spoilt  now  but  butt  bUt  curse  .  But  per- 
haps the  most  excitingthing  a£out  this  mac£ine  is 
that  you  can  by  pressing  alittle  switch  suddenly 
writein  redor  green  instead  of  in  black;  I  donvt 
understanh  how  £t  is  done  butit  is  very  jollY? 
busisisness  men  us  e  the  device  a  gre  t  deal  wen 
writing  to  their  membersof  PARLIAment,  in  or- 
der to  emphasasise  the  pointin  wich  the  in£ustice 
is  worSe  than  anyone  elses  in£ustice  .  wen  they 
come  to  WE  ARE  RUINED  they  burst  out  into 
red  and  wen  they  come  to  WE  w  WOULD  re- 
mlND  YOU  tHAT  ATtHE  LAST  E£ECTION 
yoU  UNDERTOOk  they  burst  into  GReeN. 
thei  r  typists  must  enjoy  doing  those  letters,  with 
this  arrang  ment  of  corse  one  coul  d  do  allkinds 
of  capital  wallpapers,  for  Instance  wat  about  a 
scheme  of  red  £'s  and  black  %'s  and  gReen  &'s? 
this  sort  of  thing 

£%£%£%£%£  •% 
k£k£k£k£k£ 

£%£%£%£%£% 
&£&£&£&£&.£ 

Manya  poor  man  would  be  glad  to  £ave  that  in 
his  parLour  ratherthan  wat  he  has  got  now.  of 
corse,   you  wont  be   ab?e  to   apreciate   the   fulll 

[7o] 


A  Criminal  Type 

bauty  of  the  design  since  i  underst  and  that  the 
retched  paper  which  is  going  to  print  this  has  no 
redink  and  no  green  inq  either;  so  you  must  £ust 
immagine  that  the  £'s  are  red  and  the  &'s  are 
green,  it  is  extroarordinarry  (wat  a  t  errible- 
word! ! !)  how  backward  in  MAny  waYs  these  up- 
todate  papers  are  wwww^^Hi=!  now  how  did 
that  happen  i  wond  er;  i  was  experimenting  with 
the  BACK  SPACE  key;  if  that  is  wat  it  is  for  i 
dont  thinq  i  shall  use  it  again,  il  wonder  if  i  am 
impriving  at  this!  sometimes  i  thinq  i  am  and  so 
metimes  i  thinq  iam  not.  we  have  not  had  so 
many  £'s  lately  but  i  notice  that  theere  have  been 
one  or  two  misplaced  q's  &  icannot  remember  to 
write  i  in  capital  s     there  it  goes  again. 

O  curse  the  typewriter  itself  is  not  wolly  gilt- 
less  like  all  mac&ines  it  has  amind  of  it  sown  and 
is  of  like  passsions  with  ourselves,  i  could  put 
that  into  greek  if  only  the  machine  was  not  so 
hopelessly  MOdern.  it's  chief  failing  is  that  it 
cannot  write  m'sdecently  and  instead  of  h  it  will 
keep  putting  that  confounded  £.  as  amatter  of 
fact  ithas  been  doing  m's  rather  better  today 
butthat  is  only  its  cusssedusssedness  and  because 
i  have  been  opening  my  shoul  ders  wenever  we 
have  come  to  an  m;  or  should  it  be  A  m?  who 
can  tell;  little  peculiarities  like  making  indif- 
ferent m's  are  very  important  &  w£en  one  is  bying 

[7i] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

a  typewriter  one  s£ould  make  careful  enquiries 
about  theme;  because  it  is  things  of  that  sort  wich 
so  often  give  criminals  away,  there  is  notHing 
a  detective  likes  so  much  as  a  type  riter  with  an 
idiosxz  an  idioynq  damit  an  idiotyncrasy.  for  in- 
stance if  i  commit  a  murder  i  s£ould  not  thinq  of 
writing  a  litter  about  it  with  this  of  all  typewriters 
becusa  because  that  fool  ofa  £  would  give  me 
away  at  once  I  daresay  Scotland  Yard  have  got 
specimens  of  my  trypewriting  locked  up  in  some 
pigeon-hole  allready.  if  they  £avent  they  ought 
to;  it  ought  to  be  part  of  my  dosossier. 

i  thing  the  place  of  the  hypewriter  in  ART  is 
inshufficiently  apreciated.  Modern  art  i  under- 
stand is  chiefly  sumbolical  expression  and  straigt 
lines,  a  typwriter  can  do  strait  lines  with  the  under 
lining  mark)  and  there  are  few  more  atractive 
symbols  thaN  the  symbols  i  have  used  in  this  arti- 
cel;  i  merely  thro  out  the  sugestion 

I  dont  tink  i  shal  do  many  more  articles  like 
this  it  is  tooo  much  like  work?  but  I  am  glad  I 
have  got  out  of  that  £  habit; 

A.  P.  £. 


[72] 


M 


The  Art  of  Poetry 


ANY  people  have  said  to  me,  "I  wish  I 

could  write  poems.    I  often  try,  but " 

They  mean,  I  gather,  that  the  impulse,  the 
creative  itch,  is  in  them,  but  they  don't  know  how 
to  satisfy  it.  My  own  position  is  that  I  know 
how  to  write  poetry,  but  I  can't  be  bothered.  I 
have  not  got  the  itch.  The  least  I  can  do,  how- 
ever, is  to  try  to  help  those  who  have. 

A  mistake  commonly  committed  by  novices  is 
to  make  up  their  minds  what  it  is  they  are  going 
to  say  before  they  begin.  This  is  superfluous 
effort,  tending  to  cramp  the  style.  It  is  permis- 
sible, if  not  essential,  to  select  a  subject — say, 
mud — but  any  detailed  argument  or  plan  which 
may  restrict  the  free  development  of  metre  and 
rhyme  (if  any)  is  to  be  discouraged. 

With  that  understanding,  let  us  now  write  a 
poem  about  MUD. 

I  should  begin  in  this  sort  of  way: — 

Mud,  mud, 
Nothing  but  mud, 
O  my  God! 

[73] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

It  will  be  seen  at  once  that  we  are  not  going  to 
have  much  rhyme  in  this  poem;  or  if  we  do  we 
shall  very  soon  be  compelled  to  strike  a  sinister 
note,  because  almost  the  only  rhymes  to  mud  are 
blood  and  flood;  while,  as  the  authors  of  our 
hymns  have  discovered,  there  are  very  satisfac- 
tory rhymes  to  God.  They  shamefully  evaded 
the  difficulty  by  using  words  like  road,  but  in  first- 
class  poetry  one  cannot  do  that.  On  the  whole, 
therefore,  this  poem  had  better  be  vers  libre. 
That  will  take  much  less  time  and  be  more  dra- 
matic, without  plunging  us  into  a  flood  of  blood  or 
anything  drastic  like  that.  We  now  go  on  with 
a  little  descriptive  business: — 

Into  the  sunset,  swallowing  up  the  sun, 
Crawling,  creeping, 
The  naked  flats 

Now  there  ought  to  be  a  verb.  That  is  the  worst 
of  vers  libre;  one  gets  carried  away  by  beautiful 
phrases  and  is  brought  up  suddenly  by  a  complete 
absence  of  verbs.  However  at  a  pinch  one  can 
do  without  a  verb ;  that  is  the  best  of  vers  libre: — 

Amber  and  gold, 
Deep-stained  in  mystery, 
And  the  colours  of  mystery, 

Inapprehensible, 
Golden  like  wet-gold, 
Amber  like  a  woman  of  Arabia 

[74] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 


That  has  in  her  breast 

The  forsaken  treasures  of  old  Time, 

Love  and  Destruction, 

Oblivion  and  Decay, 

And  immemorial  tins, 

Tin  upon  tin, 
Old  boots  and  bottles  that  hold  no  more 
Their  richness  in  them. 

And  I 

We  might  do  a  good  deal  more  of  this  descrip- 
tive business,  bringing  in  something  about  dead 
bodies,  mud  of  course  being  full  of  dead  bodies. 
But  we  had  better  go  on.  We  strike  now  the 
personal  note : — 

And  I, 

I  too  am  no  more  than  a  bottle, 

An  empty  bottle, 
Heaving  helpless  on  the  mud  of  life, 
Without  a  label  and  without  a  cork, 
Empty  I  am,  yet  no  man  troubles 

To  return  me. 

And  why? 
Because  there  is  not  sixpence  on  me. 

Bah! 
The  sun  goes  down, 

The  birds  wheel  home, 
But  I  remain  here, 
Drifting  empty  under  the  night, 

Drifting 

When  one  is  well  away  with  this  part  of  the 
poem  it  is  almost  impossible  to  stop.     When  you 

[75] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

are  writing  in  metre  you  come  eventually  to  the 
eighth  line  of  the  last  verse  and  you  have  to  stop; 
but  in  vers  libre  you  have  no  assistance  of  that 
kind.  This  particular  poem  is  being  written  for 
instructional  purposes  in  a  journal  of  limited  ca- 
pacity, so  it  will  probably  have  to  stop  fairly  soon; 
but  in  practice  it  would  go  on  for  a  long  time  yet. 
In  any  case,  however,  it  would  end  in  the  same 
way,  like  this: — 

Mud,  mud, 
Nothing  but  mud, 
O,  my  God! 

That  reasserts,  you  see,  in  a  striking  manner,  the 
original  motif,  and  somehow  expresses  in  a  few 
words  the  poignant  melancholy  of  the  whole 
poem.  Another  advantage  in  finishing  a  long 
poem,  such  as  this  would  be,  in  the  same  way  as 
you  began  it  is  that  it  makes  it  clear  to  the  reader 
that  he  is  still  reading  the  same  poem.  Some- 
times, and  especially  in  vers  libre  of  an  emotional 
and  digressive  character,  the  reader  has  a  hideous 
fear  that  he  has  turned  over  two  pages  and  got 
into  another  poem  altogether.  This  little  trick 
reassures  him;  and  if  you  are  writing  vers  libre 
you  must  not  lose  any  legitimate  opportunity  of 
reassuring  the  reader. 

To  treat  the  same  theme  in  metre  and  rhyme 

[76] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

will  be  a  much  more  difficult  matter.  The  great 
thing  will  be  to  avoid  having  mud  at  the  end  of  a 
line,  for  the  reasons  already  given.  We  had  bet- 
ter have  long  ten-syllable  lines,  and  we  had  better 
have  four  of  them  in  each  verse.  Gray  wrote  an 
elegy  in  that  metre  which  has  given  general  satis- 
faction.    We  will  begin: — 

As  I  came  down  through  Chintonbury  Hole 
The  tide  rolled  out  from  Wurzel  to  the  sea. 

In  a  serious  poem  of  this  kind  it  is  essential  to 
establish  a  locality  atmosphere  at  once;  therefore 
one  mentions  a  few  places  by  name  to  show  that 
one  has  been  there.  If  the  reader  has  been  there 
too  he  will  like  the  poem,  and  if  he  hasn't  no  harm 
is  done.  The  only  thing  is  that  locally  Chinton- 
bury is  probably  pronounced  Chun'bury,  in  which 
case  it  will  not  scan.  One  cannot  be  too  careful 
about  that  sort  of  thing.  However,  as  an  illus- 
tration Chintonbury  will  serve. 

It  is  now  necessary  to  show  somehow  in  this 
verse  that  the  poem  is  about  mud;  it  is  also  neces- 
sary to  organize  a  rhyme  for  "Hole"  and  a  rhyme 
for  "sea,"  and  of  the  two  this  is  the  more  impor- 
tant.    I  shall  do  it  like  this: — 

And  like  the  unclothed  levels  of  my  soul 
The  yellow  mud  lay  mourning  nakedly. 

There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  against  these 

[77] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

two  lines.  For  one  thing  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
mud  ought  to  be  yellow;  it  will  remind  people  of 
Covent  Garden  Tube  Station,  and  no  one  wants  to 
be  reminded  of  that.  However,  it  does  suggest 
the  inexpressible  biliousness  of  the  theme. 

I  think  "levels"  is  a  little  weak.  It  is  a  good 
poetical  word  and  doesn't  mean  anything  in  par- 
ticular; but  we  have  too  many  words  of  that  kind 
in  this  verse.  "Deserts"  would  do,  except  that 
deserts  and  mud  don't  go  very  well  together. 
However,  that  sort  of  point  must  be  left  to  the 
individual  writer. 

At  first  sight  the  student  may  thing  that 
"naked/)'"  is  not  a  good  rhyme  for  "sea."  Nor 
is  it.  If  you  do  that  kind  of  thing  in  comic  poetry 
no  Editor  will  give  you  money.  But  in  serious 
poetry  it  is  quite  legitimate;  in  fact  it  is  rather 
encouraged.  That  is  why  serious  poetry  is  so 
much  easier  than  comic  poetry.  In  my  next  lec- 
ture I  shall  deal  with  comic  poetry. 

I  don't  think  I  shall  finish  this  poem  now.  The 
fact  is,  I  am  not  feeling  so  inspired  as  I  was.  It 
is  very  hot.  Besides,  I  have  got-  hay-fever  and 
keep  on  sneezing.  Constant  sneezing  knocks  all 
the  inspiration  out  of  a  man.  At  the  same  time 
a  tendency  to  hay-fever  is  a  sign  of  intellect  and 
culture,  and  all  the  great  poets  were  martyrs  to 
it.     That  is  why  none  of  them  grew  very  lyrical 

[78] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

about  hay.  Corn  excited  them  a  good  deal,  and 
even  straw,  but  hay  hardly  ever. 

So  the  student  must  finish  this  poem  as  best  he 
can,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  consider  and  criticize 
what  he  does,  though  I  may  say  at  once  that 
there  will  be  no  prize.  It  ought  to  go  on  for  an- 
other eight  verses  or  so,  though  that  is  not  essen- 
tial in  these  days,  for  if  it  simply  won't  go  on  it 
can  just  stop  in  the  middle.  Only  then  it  must 
be  headed  "Mud:  A  Fragment." 

And  in  any  case,  in  the  bottom  left-hand  cor- 
ner, the  student  must  write : 

Chintonbury,  May  2$th,   1920. 

II 

In  this  lecture  I  propose  to  explain  how  comic 
poetry  is  written. 

Comic  poetry,  as  I  think  I  pointed  out  in  my 
last  lecture,  is  much  more  difficult  than  serious 
poetry,  because  there  are  all  sorts  of  rules.  In 
serious  poetry  there  are  practically  no  rules,  and 
what  rules  there  are  may  be  shattered  with  im- 
punity as  soon  as  they  become  at  all  inconvenient. 
Rhyme,  for  instance.  A  well-known  Irish  poet 
once  wrote  a  poem  which  ran  like  this : — 

"Hands,  do  as  you're  bid, 
Draw  the  balloon  of  the  mind 
That  bellies  and  sags  in  the  wind 

Into  its  narrow  shed." 

[79] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

This  was  printed  in  a  serious  paper;  but  if  the 
poet  had  sent  it  up  to  a  humorous  paper  (as  he 
might  well  have  done)  the  Editor  would  have 
said,  "Do  you  pronounce  it  shidf"  and  the  poet 
would  have  had  no  answer.  You  see,  he  started 
out,  as  serious  poets  do,  with  every  intention  of 
organizing  a  good  rhyme  for  bid — or  perhaps  for 
shed — but  he  found  this  was  more  difficult  than 
he  expected.  And  then,  no  doubt,  somebody 
drove  all  his  cattle  on  to  his  croquet-lawn,  or 
somebody  else's  croquet-lawn,  and  he  abandoned 
the  struggle.  I  shouldn't  complain  of  that;  what 
I  do  complain  of  is  the  deceitfulness  of  the  whole 
thing.  If  a  man  can't  find  a  better  rhyme  than 
shed  for  a  simple  word  like  bid,  let  him  give  up 
the  idea  of  having  a  rhyme  at  all;  let  him  write — 

Hands,  do  as  you're  told, 
or 

Into  its  narrow  hut  (or  even  hangar). 

That  at  least  would  be  an  honest  confession  of 
failure.  But  to  write  bid  and  shed  is  simply  a  sin- 
ister attempt  to  gain  credit  for  writing  a  rhymed 
poem  without  doing  it  at  all. 

Well,  that  kind  of  thing  is  not  allowed  in  comic 
poetry.  When  I  opened  my  well-known  military 
epic,  "Riddles  of  the  King,"  with  the  couplet — 

Full  dress  (with  decorations)  will  be  worn 
When  General  Officers  are  shot  at  dawn. 
[80] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

the  Editor  wrote  cuttingly  in  the  margin,  "Do  you 
say  dorn?" 

The  correct  answer  would  have  been,  of  course, 
"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  do";  but  you  cannot 
make  answers  of  that  kind  to  Editors;  they  don't 
understand  it.  And  that  brings  you  to  the  real 
drawback  of  comic  poetry;  it  means  constant  truck 
with  Editors.  But  I  must  not  be  drawn  into  a  dis- 
cussion about  them.  In  a  special  lecture — two 
special  lectures Quite. 

The  lowest  form  of  comic  poetry  is,  of 
course,  the  Limerick;  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  sup- 
pose that  it  is  the  easiest.  It  is  more  difficult  to 
finish  a  Limerick  than  to  finish  anything  in  the 
world.  You  see,  in  a  Limerick  you  cannot  be- 
gin :— 

There  was  an  old  man  of  West  Ham 

and  go  on 

Who  formed  an  original  plan. 

finishing  the  last  line  with  limb  or  hen  or  bun. 
A  serious  writer  could  do  that  with  impunity,  and 
indeed  with  praise,  but  the  more  exacting  tradi- 
tions of  Limerical  composition  insist  that,  having 
fixed  on  Ham  as  the  end  of  the  first  line,  you  must 
find  two  other  rhymes  to  Ham,  and  good  rhymes 
too.     This  is  why  there  is  so  large  a  body  of  un- 

[81] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

completed  Limericks.  For  many  years  I  have 
been  trying  to  finish  the  following  unfinished 
masterpiece : — 

There  was  a  young  man  who  said  "Hell! 
I  don't  think  I  feel  very  well " 

That  was  composed  on  the  Gallipoli  Peninsula; 
in  fact  it  was  composed  under  fire;  indeed  I  re- 
member now  that  we  were  going  over  the  top  at 
the  time.  But  in  the  quiet  days  of  Peace  I  can  get 
no  further  with  it.  It  only  shows  how  much 
easier  it  is  to  begin  a  Limerick  than  to  end  it. 

Apart  from  the  subtle  phrasing  of  the  second 
line  this  poem  is  noteworthy  because  it  is  cast  in 
the  classic  form.  All  the  best  Limericks  are  about 
a  young  man,  or  else  an  old  one,  who  said  some 
short  sharp  monosyllable  in  the  first  line.  For 
example : — 

There  was  a  young  man  who  said  "If 

Now  what  are  the  rhymes  to  iff  Looking  up  my 
Rhyming  Dictionary  I  see  they  are: — 

cliff       hieroglyph       hippogriff 
skiff       sniff    stiff       tiff  whiff 

Of  these  one  may  reject  hippogriff  at  once,  as  it  is 
in  the  wrong  metre.  Hieroglyph  is  attractive,  and 
we  might  do  worse  than : — 

There  was  a  young  man  who  said  "If 
One  murdered  a  hieroglyph " 

[82] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

Having,  however,  no  very  clear  idea  of  the  na- 
ture of  a  hieroglyph  I  am  afraid  that  this  will  also 
join  the  long  list  of  unfinished  masterpieces.  Per- 
sonally I  should  incline  to  something  of  this 
kind : — 

There  was  a  young  man  who  said  "If 
I  threw  myself  over  a  cliff 

I  do  not  believe 

One   person  would   grieve " 

Now  the  last  line  is  going  to  be  very  difficult. 
The  tragic  loneliness,  the  utter  disillusion  of  this 
young  man  is  so  vividly  outlined  in  the  first  part 
of  the  poem  that  to  avoid  an  anticlimax  a  really 
powerful  last  line  is  required.  But  there  are  no 
powerful  rhymes.  A  serious  poet,  of  course,  could 
finish  up  with  death  or  faith,  or  some  powerful 
word  like  that.  But  we  are  limited  to  skiff,  sniff, 
tiff  and  whiff.  And  what  can  you  do  with  those? 
Students,  I  hope,  will  see  what  they  can  do.  My 
own  tentative  solution  is  printed,  by  arrangement 
with  the  Publisher,  on  another  page  (87).  I  do 
not  pretend  that  it  is  perfect;  in  fact  it  seems  to 
me  to  strike  rather  a  vulgar  note.  At  the  same 
time  it  is  copyright,  and  must  not  be  set  to  music 
in  the  U.S.A. 

I  have  left  little  time  for  comic  poetry  other 
than  Limericks,  but  most  of  the  above  profound 
observations  are  equally  applicable  to  both,  ex- 

[83] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

cept  that  in  the  case  of  the  former  it  is  usual  to 
think  of  the  last  line  first.  Having  done  that  you 
think  of  some  good  rhymes  to  the  last  line  and 
hang  them  up  in  mid-air,  so  to  speak.  Then  you 
think  of  something  to  say  which  will  fit  on  to  those 
rhymes.  It  is  just  like  Limericks,  only  you  start 
at  the  other  end;  indeed  it  is  much  easier  than 
Limericks,  though,  I  am  glad  to  say,  nobody  be- 
lieves this.  If  they  did  it  would  be  even  harder 
to  get  money  out  of  Editors  than  it  is  already. 

We  will  now  write  a  comic  poem  about  Spring 
Cleaning.  We  will  have  verses  of  six  lines,  five 
ten-syllable  lines  and  one  six-syllable.  As  the  last 
line  for  the  first  verse  I  suggest 

Where  have  they  put  my  hat? 

We  now  require  two  rhymes  to  hat.  In  the  pres- 
ent context  flat  will  obviously  be  one,  and  cat  or 
drat  will  be  another.  Our  resources  at  present  are 
therefore  as  follows: — 

Line  i 


a 
it 
« 


2 —  .  .  .  flat. 

3 

4 —  .  .  .  cat  or  drat. 

5 

6 — Where  have  they  put  my  hat? 


As  for  the  blank  lines,  wife  is  certain  to  come  in 
sooner  or  later,  and  we  had  better  put  that  down, 

[84] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

supported  by  life  ("What  a  life!"),  and  knife  or 
strife.  There  are  no  other  rhymes,  except  rife, 
which  is  a  useless  word. 

We  now  hold  another  parade: — 

Terumti — umti — umti — umti — wife, 

Terumti — umti — umti — umti — flat ; 
Teroodle — oodle — oodle — What  a  life! 

Terumti — oodle — umti — oodle — cat  (or  drat)  ; 
Teroodle — umti — oodle — umti — knife   (or  strife)  ; 

Where  have  they  put  my  hat? 

All  that  remains  now  is  to  fill  in  the  umti-oodles, 
and  I  can't  be  bothered  to  do  that.  There  is  noth- 
ing in  it. 

Ill 

In  this  lecture  I  shall  deal  with  the  production 
of  Lyrics,  Blank  Verse  and  (if  I  am  allowed) 
Hymns  (Ancient  and  Modern). 

First  we  will  write  a  humorous  lyric  for  the 
Stage,  bearing  in  mind,  of  course,  the  peculiar 
foibles,  idiosyncrasies  and  whims  of  Mr.  Alf  Bub- 
ble, who  will  sing  it  (we  hope).  Mr.  Bubble's 
principal  source  of  fun  is  the  personal  appearance 
of  his  fellow-citizens.  Whenever  a  new  char- 
acter comes  on  the  stage  he  makes  some  remark 
about  the  character's  "face."  Whenever  he  does 
this  the  entire  audience  rolls  about  on  its  seat, 
and  cackles  and  gurgles  and  wipes  its  eyes,  and 

[85] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

repeats  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  with  variations  of  its 
own,  the  uproarious  phrasing  of  Mr.  Bubble's 
remark.  If  Mr.  Bubble  says,  "But  look  at  his 
face!"  the  audience,  fearful  lest  its  neighbours 
may  have  missed  the  cream  of  the  thing,  splutters 
hysterically  in  the  intervals  of  eye-wiping  and 
coughing  and  choking  and  sneezing,  "He  said, 
'What  a  face!'  "  or  "He  said,  'Did  you  see  his 
face?'  "  or  "He  said,  'Is  it  a  facef  " 

All  this  we  have  got  to  remember  when  we  are 
writing  a  lyric  for  Mr.  Bubble.  Why  Mr.  Bubble 
of  all  people  should  find  so  much  mirth  in  other 
men's  faces  I  can't  say,  but  there  it  is.  If  we 
write  a  song  embodying  this  great  joke  we  may 
be  certain  that  it  will  please  Mr.  Bubble;  so  we 
will  do  it. 

Somebody,  I  think,  will  have  made  some  slight- 
ing remark  about  the  Government,  and  that  will 
give  the  cue  for  the  first  verse,  which  will  be 
political. 

We  will  begin : — 

Thompson  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  why  the  people  in  humorous  lyrics 

are  always  called  Thompson  (or  Brown) ,  but  they 

are. 

Thompson,  being  indigent, 
Thought  that  it  was  time  he  went 
Into  England's  Parliament, 
To  earn  his  daily  bread  .  .  . 

[86] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

That  is  a  joke  against  Parliament,  you  see — 
Payment  of  Members  and  all  that;  it  is  good.  At 
the  same  time  it  is  usual  to  reserve  one's  jokes  for 
the  chorus.  The  composer,  you  see,  reserves  his 
tune  for  the  chorus,  and,  if  the  author  puts  too 
much  into  the  verse,  there  will  be  trouble  between 
their  Unions. 

Now  we  introduce  the  face-motif: — 

Thompson's  features  were  not  neat; 
When  he  canvassed  dahn  our  street 
Things  were  said  I  won't  repeat, 
And  my  old  moth-ah  said : — 

This  verse,  you  notice,  is  both  in  metre  and 
rhyme;  I  don't  know  how  that  has  happened;  it 
ought  not  to  be. 

Now  we  have  the  chorus : — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thompson, 

It  isn't  any  good ; 
I  shouldn't  like  to  vote  for  you, 

So  I  won't  pretend  I  should; 
I  know  that  you're  the  noblest 

Of  all  the  human  race  .  .  ." 

That  shows  the  audience  that  face  is  coming 
very  soon,  and  they  all  get  ready  to  burst  them- 
selves. 

"I  haven't  a  doubt,  if  you  get  in, 
The  Golden  Age  will  soon  begin — 
But  I  don't  like — your  FACE." 

*  Solution:    It  comes  of  my  having  a  sniff   (see  page  83). 

[87] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

At  this  point  several  of  the  audience  will  simply 
slide  off  their  seats  on  to  the  floor  and  wallow 
about  there,  snorting. 

The  next  verse  had  better  be  a  love-verse. 

Thompson  wooed  a  lovely  maid 
Every  evening  in  the  shade, 
Meaning,  I  am  much  afraid, 
To  hide  his  ugly  head  .  .  . 

Head  is  not  very  good,  I  admit,  but  we  must 
have  said  in  the  last  line,  and  as  we  were  mad 
enough  to  have  rhymes  in  the  first  verse  we  have 
got  to  go  on  with  it. 

But  when  he  proposed  one  night — 
Did  it  by  electric  light — 
Mabel,  who  retained  her  sight, 
Just  looked  at  him  and  said : — 

Now  you  see  the  idea? 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thompson, 
It  isn't  any  good; 
I  shouldn't  like  to  marry  you, 

So  I  won't  pretend  I  should; 
I  know  that  you  have  riches 
And  a  house  in  Eaton  Place  .  .  . 

(Here  all  the  audience  pulls  out  its  handkerchief) 

I  haven't  a  doubt  that  you  must  be 
The  properest  possible  match  for  me, 
But  I  don't  like — your  FACE." 

[88] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

I  have  got  another  verse  to  this  song,  but  I  will 
not  give  it  to  you  now,  as  I  think  the  Editor  is 
rather  bored  with  it.  It  is  fortunate  for  Mr. 
Bubble  that  he  does  not  have  to  perform  before 
an  audience  of  Editors. 

Having  written  the  lyric  the  next  thing  to  do 
is  to  get  a  composer  to  compose  music  for  it,  and 
then  you  get  it  published.  This  is  most  difficult, 
as  composers  are  people  who  don't  ever  keep 
appointments,  and  music  publishers  like  locking 
up  lyrics  in  drawers  till  the  mice  have  got  at  the 
chorus  and  the  whole  thing  is  out  of  date. 

By  the  time  that  this  song  is  ready  Mr.  Bubble 
may  quite  possibly  have  exhausted  the  face-motif 
altogether  and  struck  a  new  vein.  Then  we  shall 
have  wasted  our  labour.  In  that  case  we  will 
arrange  to  have  it  buried  in  somebody's  grave 
(Mr.  Bubble's  for  choice) ,  and  in  A.D.  2000  it  will 
be  dug  up  by  antiquaries  and  deciphered.  Even 
a  lyric  like  this  may  become  an  Old  Manuscript 
in  time.  I  ought  to  add  that  I  myself  have  com- 
posed the  music  for  this  lyric,  but  I  really  cannot 
undertake  to  explain  composing  as  well  as  poetry. 

The  serious  lyric  or  Queen's  Hall  ballad  is  a 
much  easier  affair.  But  I  must  first  warn  the  stu- 
dent that  there  are  some  peculiar  customs  attach- 
ing to  this  traffic  which  may  at  first  sight  appear 
discouraging.      When   you  have   written  a  good 

[89] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

lyric  and  induced  someone  to  compose  a  tune  for 
it  your  first  thought  will  be,  "I  will  get  Mr. 
Throstle  to  sing  this,  and  he  will  pay  me  a  small 
fee  or  royalty  per  performance";  and  this  indeed 
would  be  a  good  arrangement  to  make.  The  only 
objection  is  that  Mr.  Throstle,  so  far  from  pay- 
ing any  money  to  the  student,  will  expect  to  be 
paid  about  fifty  pounds  by  the  student  for  sing- 
ing his  lyric.  I  do  not  know  the  origin  of  this 
quaint  old  custom,  but  the  student  had  better 
not  borrow  any  money  on  the  security  of  his  first 
lyric. 

For  a  serious  or  Queen's  Hall  lyric  all  that  is 
necessary  is  to  think  of  some  natural  objects  like 
the  sun,  the  birds,  the  flowers  or  the  trees,  men- 
tion them  briefly  in  the  first  verse  and  then  in  the 
second  verse  draw  a  sort  of  analogy  or  comparison 
between  the  natural  object  and  something  to  do 
with  love.  The  verses  can  be  extremely  short, 
since  in  this  class  of  music  the  composer  is  allowed 
to  spread  himself  indefinitely  and  can  eke  out  the 
tiniest  words. 

Here  is  a  perfect  lyric  I  have  written.  It  is 
called,  quite  simply,  Evening: — 

Sunshine  in  the  forest, 

Blossom  on  the  tree, 
And  all  the  brave  birds  singing 

For  you — and  me. 

[90] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 


Kisses  in  the  sunshine, 

Laughter  in  the  dew, 
And  all  the  brave  world  singing 

For  me — and  you. 

I  see  now  that  the  dew  has  got  into  the  second 
verse,  so  it  had  better  be  called  quite  simply  "The 
Dawn." 

You  notice  the  artistic  parallelism  of  this  lyric; 
I  mean,  "The  brave  birds  singing"  in  one  verse 
and  "The  brave  world  singing"  in  the  next,  That 
is  a  tip  I  got  from  Hebrew  poetry,  especially  the 
Psalms:  "One  day  telleth  another;  and  one  night 
certifieth  another,"  and  so  on.  It  is  a  useful  trick 
to  remember,  and  is  employed  freely  by  many 
modern  writers,  the  author  of  "The  King's  Regu- 
lations," for  example,  who  in  Regulation  1680 
has  the  fine  line  : — 

"Disembarkations  are  carried  out  in  a  similar  manner  to 
embarkations." 

That  goes  well  to  the  Chant  in  C  major  by  Mr.  P. 
Humphreys. 

But  I  am  wandering.  It  is  becoming  clear  to 
me  now  that  I  shall  not  have  time  to  do  Blank 
Verse  or  Hymns  (Ancient  and  Modern)  in  this 
lecture,  after  all,  so  I  will  give  you  a  rough  out- 
line of  that  special  kind  of  lyric,  the  Topical  Song. 
All  that  is  required  for  this  class  of  work  is  a 

[90 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

good  refrain  or  central  idea;  when  you  have  got 
that,  you  see  how  many  topics  you  can  tack  on 
to  it.  But  if  you  can  tack  on  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill  you  need  not  bother  about  the  others. 

Our  central   idea   will  be   "Rations,"   and  the 
song  will  be  called  "Heaps  and  Heaps" : — 

Now  Jimmy  Brown 

(always  begin  like  that) 

Now  Jimmy  Brown 

He  went  to  town, 
But  all  the  people  said, 
"We're  rationed  in  our  jam,  you  know, 
Likewise  our  cheese  and  bread; 
But  we've  lot  of  politicians 

And  Ministers  galore, 
We've  got  enough  of  them  and,  gee ! 

We  don't  want  any  more." 

Chorus. 

We've  had  heaps  and  heaps  and  heaps  of  Mr.  Smillie 
(Loud  cheers)  ; 
We've  had  heaps  and  heaps  and  heaps  of  our  M.P. 
(Significant  chuckles)  ; 
At  political  carouses 
We've  had  heaps  of  (paper)   houses 
But  though  we  wait,  no  houses  do  we  see    (Bitter 
laughter). 
The  khaki-boys  were  good  enough  for  fighting, 

But  now  we  hear  the  khaki-coat  is  barred; 
If  they  ration  us  in  Mr.  Winston  Churchill, 
Why,  anyone  may  have  my  ration-card!     (Uproar.) 

[92] 


The  Art  of  Poetry 

All  you  have  to  do  now  is  to  work  in  some  more 
topics.  I  don't  think  I  shall  do  any  more  now. 
The  truth  is,  that  that  verse  has  rather  taken  it 
out  of  me. 

I  feel  all  barren. 


[93] 


The  Book  of  Jonah 

(As   almost  any    modern   Irishman   would  have 

written  it) 

( The  circumlocution  of  the  play — there  is  no 
action — takes  place  I  don't  know  where  and  I 
can't  think  when.  But  the  scene  is  the  corner  of 
the  village  square.  Mrs.  J  oner  is  discovered  sit- 
ting in  front  of  her  house,  knitting,  washing  socks, 
or  perhaps  just  thinking.  In  the  distance  can  be 
seen  the  figure  of  a  male  statue,  very  new,  with  a 
long  inscription  on  the  pedestal.  Timothy  James 
O'Leary  walks  by,  gazing  at  the  statue.) 

T.  J.  Good  day  to  you,  Bridget  Ellen  Joner. 
And  it's  many's  the  day  since  I  was  seeing  you. 
(With  a  jerk  of  his  head.)  And  isn't  it  the  fine 
statue  you  have  on  himself  there? 

Mrs.  J.  It  is  so.  Though,  indeed,  it  is  like  no 
husband  I  ever  had — or  ever  will  have,  I'm 
hoping. 

T.  J.  It  is  not — and  why  would  it  be?  Who 
wants  likenesses  in  a  statue  when  they  have  all 

[94] 


The  Book  of  Jonah 

that  writing  and  printing  below  to  tell  who  it  is 
above — {piously) — "Michael  Flannigan  Joner, 
that  gave  his  life  for  his  fellow-travelers"? 

Mrs.  J .  Aye,  it  was  the  only  time  he  ever  gave 
anything  away  in  his  life,  to  my  knowing,  unless 
it  would  be  them  sermons  and  prophecies  that  he 
would  be  handing  to  the  folk  in  the  public  street, 
and  none  wanting  them  any  more  than  the  cows 
in  the  bog. 

T.J.  Ah,  it  was  a  queer  thing  entirely !  Have 
you  heard  any  more  now  what  was  the  way  of  it, 
for  I  am  not  understanding  how  it  was  at  all. 

Mrs.  J.  It  was  the  sailors  of  the  ship  that  did 
be  saying  they  would  sail  the  ship  no  longer  when 
they  found  that  himself  was  in  the  Post  Office, 
and  him  travelling  for  the  Government.  And 
there  was  a  great  storm  and  the  ship  was  tossing 
the  way  you  wouldn't  know  was  she  a  ship  at  all, 
or  a  cork  that  a  boy  throws  in  the  water  out  of  a 
bottle;  and  the  sailors  said  it  was  the  English 
Government — and  why  would  it  not  be? — and 
they  cried  out  against  himself  and  said  it  was  hav- 
ing the  ship  sunk  on  them  he  would  be,  and  he 
rose  up  out  of  his  bed  and  "Is  it  sinking  the  ship 
I  would  be?"  he  said,  and  he  threw  himself  over 
the  side  into  the  water — and  that  was  the  way 
of  it. 

T.  J.   {reflectively).     And  him  with  the  rheu- 

[95] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

matics — God  rest  his  soul!  And  have  you  any 
pension  taken  from  the  Government? 

Mrs.  J.  I  have  so.  And  it's  worth  more  to  me 
he  is  now  he's  dead  than  ever  he  was  when  he  was 
alive  with  all  his  praying  and  preaching  and 
prophesying 

T.  J.  Maybe  it's  thinking  of  marrying  again 
you  might  be? 

Mrs.  J.  And  how  would  I  be  marrying  again, 
Timothy  James,  and  I  a  lone  widow  woman  with 
no  money  to  pay  for  the  roof  over  my  head — let 
alone  weddings? 

T.  J.  And  why  would  you  not  be  ?  Sure,  you 
have  the  pension  for  himself,  and  what  better  use 
can  a  woman  find  for  a  pension  that  is  for  her 
man  that  is  dead  than  to  get  another  that  is  alive 
and  well? 

Mrs.  J.  Will  you  tell  me  now  where  I  would 
find  a  husband  that  would  be  the  equal  of  a  man 
who  gave  his  life  for  his  fellow-travellers — and 
him  with  the  rheumatics? 

T.  J.  Sure,  it's  the  grand  position  you  have 
entirely  now,  and  every  man  and  woman  in  the 
whole  country-side  scheming  and  scraping  to  give 
a  few  pennies  to  the  collection  for  the  statue,  and 
the  Lord-Lieutenant  himself  coming  down  for  the 
unveiling — and  it's  difficult  it  would  be  to  find  a 
man  that  was  fine  enough  to  marry  you  at  all — but 

[96] 


The  Book  of  Jonah 

— but  (looking  round)  don't  I  know  the  very  man 
for  you? 

Mrs.  J.  And  who  might  that  be,  for  goodness 
sake? 

T.  J.  (confidentially) .  Come  within  now  and 
I'll  tell  you.  I'd  be  fearful  here  that  one  of  the 
lads  would  maybe  hear  me. 

(They  go  into  the  house.) 

(A  man  strolls  along  the  road,  looking  about 
him  with  keen  interest;  he  is  wild  and  myste- 
rious of  aspect,  with  shaggy  hair  and  travel- 
stained,  untidy  clothes.  He  stops  with  a  start 
in  front  of  the  statue  and  gazes  at  it  with 
amazement ;  then  he  slowly  reads  the  inscrip- 
tion. ) 

Mr.  J.  "Michael  Flannigan  Joner,  who  gave 
his  life  for  his  fellow-travellers."  (In  stupefac- 
tion.) Glory  be  to  God!  (Turning  to  the  house.) 
Bridget  Ellen — are  you  within  there?  (He  turns 
and  gazes  at  the  statue  again.) 

( There  is  a  sound  of  laughter  in  the  house. 
Mrs.  J.  and  Timothy  J.  come  out,  arm-in-arm 
and  affectionate;  they  see   the  man   and  stop 
dead  in  the  doorway.) 
T.  J.    Glory  be  to  God! 
Mrs.  J.     The  Saints  preserve  us ! 
T.  J.    If  it  isn't  Michael  Joner  himself! 

[97] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Mr.  J.  It  is  so  (pointing  indignantly).  And 
what  call  had  you  to  make  a  graven  image  of  him 
in  the  public  street  the  like  of  the  Kings  of  Eng- 
land or  Parnell  himself? 

Mrs.  J.  And  what  call  had  you  to  come  back 
from  the  dead  without  a  word  of  warning  and  I 
after  promising  myself  to  a  better  man? 

Mr.  J.  (still  full  of  statue).  "Gave  his  life  for 
his  fellow-trav "     And  is  it  mad  you  all  are? 

Mrs.  J.  Then  you  did  not  do  so?  (To  T.  J.) 
Wasn't  I  telling  you? 

Mr.  J.  I  did  not  indeed.  And  why  would  I — 
the  low  heathen — and  I  that  had  my  fare  paid  to 
Tarshish? 

Mrs.  J.  and  T.  J.  raise  their  eyebrows  at  this 
suspicious  utterance. 

Mrs.  T.  J.  Tarshish !  Sure  it's  drunk  he 
is!  .  .  .  Then  how  came  you  lepping  into  the 
water  like  a  young  dog  or  a  boy  that  does  be  div- 
ing in  the  hot  weather,  and  you  with 

Mr.  J.  It  was  not  lepping  I  was  nor  diving 
neither,  but  it's  thrown  in  I  was  by  a  lot  of  heathen 
sailors  because  I  was  after  prophesying  the  wrath 
of  the  Lord  upon  them 

Mrs.  J.  Didn't  I  tell  you  now  that  no  good 
would  come  of  the  prophesying,  and  you  that  was 
brought  up  a  decent  lad  by  your  own  father  in 
Kilbay? 

[98] 


The  Book  of  Jonah 

T.  J.  And  what  happened  to  you  when  you 
were  thrown  in  at  all? 

Mr.  J.  Sure,  I  was  swallowed  by  a  great  whale, 
and  the  Lord  said  to  the  whale 

T.  J.    Holy  Mother!     It's  mad  he  is  and  not 

drunk  at  all ! 

Mr.  J.  It  is  not  mad  I  am  nor  drunk  either. 
Wasn't  I  three  days  and  three  nights  in  the  belly 
of  the  whale,  and  the  sea  roaring  without,  the 
same  as  a  man  would  lie  in  his  warm  bed  and  it 
raining 

Mrs.  J.  Three  days  and  three  nights! — and 
isn't  it  nine  months  since  you  lepped  out  of  the 
ship?  Will  you  tell  me  now  where  you  have  been 
in  the  meanwhile  and  what  you  were  doing  at  all? 

Mr.  J.  Sure  the  Lord  spoke  to  the  whale,  and 
the  whale  threw  me  up  on  the  dry  land 

Mrs.  J.  {suspicious  soul).  And  where  would 
that  be  now? 

Mr.  J.    Sure  I  don't  know  now 

Mrs.  J.     I  should  think  not  indeed 


Mr.  J.  — but  it  was  a  small  little  island  and 
devil  a  ship  came  there  at  all  to  take  me  away 

Mrs.  J.  {to  T.  J.,  lifting  her  hands).  Did  you 
ever  hear  the  like  of  that?  And  were  there  any 
fine  young  ladies  or  mermaids  maybe  on  that  same 
small  little  island? 

[99] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Mr.  J.  There  were  not  then — nor  statues 
either. 

T.  J.  (humouring  him).  And  what  might  ye 
be  doing  while  you  were  in  the  belly  of  the  whale, 
Michael  Flannigan? 

Mr.  J.  And  why  wouldn't  I  be  prophesying 
and  praying  unto  the  Lord,  the  way  he  would  calm 
the  whale,  and  it  roaring  and  lepping  in  the  sea 
like  a  trout  that  has  the  hook  swallowed,  and  it 
tickling  .   .   .? 

Mrs.  J.  It's  well  you  might  be  praying  unto  the 
Lord,  Michael  Flannigan,  for  it's  a  queer  thing 
entirely  if  a  lone  widow  woman  can  no  more  be 
left  in  peace  without  her  man  coming  back  from 
the  dead  to  frighten  her  out  of  her  wits  with 
whales  and  the  like,  the  way  she  would  be  the 
laughing  stock  of  the  whole  country-side !  And 
it's  devil  a  penny  will  I  have  from  the  Govern- 
ment now  seeing  you  are  alive  again  and  not  dead 
at  all. 

T.  J.  It's  a  true  word,  Michael  Flannigan,  and 
it's  queer  uneasy  I  am  myself  that  had  set  my 
heart  on  marrying  your  own  wife. 

Mrs.  J.  And  will  you  tell  me  now  what  will  we 
be  after  doing  with  the  grand  statue  we  have  put 
up  on  you,  Michael  Flannigan,  and  it's  myself  that 
has  the  flesh  worn  from  my  fingers  with  working 
to  put  a  few  shillings  together  to  pay  for  it? 
[ioo] 


The  Book  of  Jonah 

Mr.  J.  (infuriated) .  Is  it  /  that  was  asking 
for  a  statue  at  all?  (He  regards  it.)  But  sure  it 
is  a  fine  thing  entirely — and  why  would  it  not  stay 
where  it  is? 

Mrs.  J.  And  the  whole  world  coming  here  by 
the  train  to  make  a  mock  of  me,  the  way  they 
would  be  seeing  the  statue  of  the  man  who  "gave 
his  life  for  his  fellow-travellers,"  and  him  sleep- 
ing in  his  own  bed  all  the  time  like  a  common 
man! 

Mr.  J.  Common,  is  it?  Is  it  every  day  you 
have  a  man  coming  from  the  dead  that  was  three 
days  and  three  nights  in  the  belly  of  a  whale? 

Mrs.  J.     It  is  not — thanks  be  to  God ! 

T.  J.  What  ails  you  now,  Bridget  Ellen! 
Why  wouldn't  we  be  altering  the  writing  that  is 
below  the  statue  and  write  down  this  story  about 
the  whale,  or  any  other  fairy-story  that  he  might 
be  thinking  of  in  the  night  and  him  lying  awake — 
for  sure  it  is  a  grand  story  and  I  wouldn't  wonder 
would  the  folk  be  travelling  out  from  the  big 
towns  to  see  the  man  that  was  in  the  belly  of  a 
whale,  when  they  wouldn't  walk  across  the  road 
to  see  a  man  that  gave  his  life  for  his  fellow- 
travellers,  and  they  English  as  like  as  not. 

Mrs.  J.  It's  little  the  money  I'll  be  getting 
out  of  that,  I'm  thinking. 

T.  J.    And  why  will  you  not?    It  could  be  that 

[101] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

them  music-halls  in  the  big  towns  and  the  theayters 
themselves  would  pay  money  to  Michael  Flanni- 
gan  for  no  more  than  walking  on  the  stage  and 
telling  the  people  what  went  on  while  he  was  in  the 
whale — the  same  as  they  would  for  a  cow  that  has 
five  legs  or  the  smallest  woman  in  the  world. 
Sure,  didn't  they  give  Peter  O'Flaherty  three 
pounds  for  the  loan  of  his  duck  that  had  no  legs 
at  all? 

Mrs.  J.  It  could  be  that  they  might,  Timothy 
James. 

Mr.  J.  There  is  money  in  them  whales,  'tis 
true,  and  they  full  of  whalebone,  the  same  as  the 
fine  ladies  do  use  in  Dublin  for  their  dress  and  all. 
And  when  I  was  smoking  my  tobacco-pipe  in  the 
whale,  the  oil  did  be  running  down  the  inside  of 
the  creature  the  way  I  was  afeered  he  would  take 
fire  and  the  two  of  us  be  destroyed  altogether. 

T.  J.  (admiringly).  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like 
of  that?  There's  them  at  the  theayters  that 
would  pay  you  a  mint  of  money  for  that  same 
story,  Michael  Flannigan! 

Mr.  J.    They  might  so. 

T.  J.  But  tell  me  now,  Michael  Flannigan,  is 
it  the  truth  or  no  that  them  whales  have  the  queer 
small  throats  on  them,  the  way  they  couldn't  swal- 
low a  little  whiting,  let  alone  a  big  man?  It 
could  be  that  one  of  them  writing  fellows  would 
[102] 


The  Book  of  Jonah 

rise  up  in  the  theayter  and  say  there  was  no  man 
yet  was  swallowed  by  a  whale,  nor  will  be  neither, 
because  of  the  queer  small  throat  they  have  on 
them !  How  would  it  be  if  you  were  to  give  it  out 
that  you  were  swallowed  by  a  big  fish,  the  way  the 
ignorant  folk  would  guess  it  was  a  whale  and  the 
people  that  do  understand  whales  wouldn't  be  able 
to  say  you  were  telling  a  lie? 

Mr.  J.  'Tis  a  great  head  you  have  on  you, 
Timothy  James,  and  it's  sorry  I  am  it  was  myself 
was  in  the  whale  and  not  you. 

T.  J.  Faith,  'tis  glad  I  am  I  was  never  in  a 
whale,  for  they  do  say  they  belong  to  the  Eng- 
lish King,  the  creatures,  and  God  knows  what  may 
come  of  the  like  of  that! 

Mr.  J.  Is  it  the  King  of  England's  they  are? 
Then,  Glory  be  to  God,  I'll  have  no  more  to  do 
with  them! 

T.  J.  Sure,  and  there's  nothing  wrong  with  the 
King's  money,  is  there?  And  it's  plenty  of  that 
there  will  be,  I'm  thinking.  I  tell  you,  it's  the 
grand  story  they'll  make  in  the  history-books  till 
the  world's  end  of  Michael  Flannigan  Joner  that 
was  ate  by  a  whale ! 

Mrs.  J.  And  devil  a  word  will  they  say  of 
Bridget  Ellen,  his  wife,  that  was  married  to  a 
mad  fellow. 

T.  J.     Let  you  not  be  vexing  yourself  now.     I 

[103] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

wouldn't  wonder  would  one  of  them  writing  fel- 
lows be  writing  a  book  about  you,  or  maybe  a  play, 
and  it's  the  grand  talk  there  will  be  of  Joner's 
wife  at  the  latter  end. 
Mrs.  J.     It  might. 

(curtain) 


[104] 


The  Mystery  of  the 
Apple-pie  Beds 

(leaves  from  a  holiday  diary) 

I 

AN  outrage  has  occurred  in  the  hotel.  Late 
on  Monday  night  ten  innocent  visitors  dis- 
covered themselves  the  possessors  of  apple- 
pie  beds.  The  beds  were  not  of  the  offensive 
hair-brush  variety,  but  they  were  very  cleverly 
constructed,  the  under-sheet  being  pulled  up  in 
the  good  old  way  and  turned  over  at  the  top  as  if 
it  were  the  top-sheet. 

I  had  one  myself.  The  lights  go  out  at  eleven 
and  I  got  into  bed  in  the  dark.  When  one  is  very 
old  and  has  not  been  to  school  for  a  long  time 
or  had  an  apple-pie  bed  for  longer  still,  there  is 
something  very  uncanny  in  the  sensation,  espe- 
cially if  it  is  dark.  I  did  not  like  it  at  all.  My 
young  brother-in-law,  Denys,  laughed  immoder- 
ately in  the  other  bed  at  my  flounderings  and  im- 
precations. He  did  not  have  one.  I  suspect 
him.  .   .  . 

[105] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

ii 

Naturally  the  hotel  is  very  much  excited.  It  is 
the  most  thrilling  event  since  the  mixed  foursomes. 
Nothing  else  has  been  discussed  since  breakfast. 
Ten  people  had  beds  and  about  ten  people  are 
suspected.  The  really  extraordinary  thing  is  that 
numbers  of  people  seem  to  suspect  me!  That  is 
the  worst  of  being  a  professional  humorist;  every- 
thing is  put  down  to  you.  When  I  was  accom- 
panying Mrs.  F.  to-day  she  suddenly  stopped  fid- 
dling and  said  hotly  that  someone  had  been  tam- 
pering with  her  violin.  I  know  she  suspected  me. 
Fortunately,  however,  I  have  a  very  good  answer 
to  this  applie-pie  bed  charge.  Eric  says  that  his 
bed  must  have  been  done  after  dinner,  and  I  was 
to  be  seen  at  the  dance  in  the  lounge  all  the  even- 
ing.    I  have  an  alibi. 

Besides,  I  had  a  bed  myself;  surely  they  don't 
believe  that  even  a  professional  humorist  could 
be  so  bursting  with  humour  as  to  make  himself 
an  apple-pie  bed  and  not  make  one  for  his  brother- 
in-law  in  the  same  room !  It  would  be  too  much 
like  overtime. 

But  they  say  that  only  shows  my  cleverness.  .  .  . 

Ill 

Then  there  is  the  question  of  the  Barkers. 
Most  of  the  victims  were  young  people,  who  could 
[106] 


Mystery  of  Apple-pie  Beds 

not  possibly  mind.  But  the  Barkers  had  two, 
and  the  Barkers  are  a  respected  middle-aged 
couple,  and  nobody  could  possibly  make  them 
apple-pie  beds  who  did  not  know  them  very  well. 
That  shows  you  it  can't  have  been  me — I — me — 
that  shows  you  I  couldn't  have  done  it.  I  have 
only  spoken  to  them  once. 

They  say  Mr.  Barker  was  rather  annoyed.  He 
has  rheumatism  and  went  to  bed  early.  Mrs. 
Barker  discovered  about  her  bed  before  she  got 
in,  but  she  didn't  let  on.  She  put  out  the  candle, 
and  allowed  her  lord  to  get  into  his  apple-pie  in 
the  dark.     I  think  I  shall  like  her. 

They  couldn't  find  the  matches.  I  believe  he 
was  quite  angry.  .  .  . 

IV 

I  suspect  Denys  and  Joan.  They  are  engaged, 
and  people  in  that  state  are  capable  of  anything. 
Neither  of  them  had  one,  and  they  were  seen 
slipping  upstairs  during  the  dance.  They  say  they 
went  out  on  the  balcony — a  pretty  story.   .  .   . 


I  suspect  the  Barkers.  You  know,  that  story 
about  Mrs.  B.  letting  Mr.  B.  get  into  his  without 
warning  him  was  pretty  thin.  Can  you  imagine  an 

[107] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

English  wife  doing  a  thing  of  that  kind?  If  you 
can  it  ought  to  be  a  ground  for  divorce  under  the 
new  Bill.     But  you  can't. 

Then  all  that  stuff  about  the  rheumatism — 
clever  but  unconvincing.  Mr.  Barker  stayed  in 
his  room  all  the  next  morning  when  the  awkward 
questions  were  being  asked.  Not  well;  oh,  no! 
But  he  was  down  for  lunch  and  conducting  for  a 
glee-party  in  the  drawing-room  afterwards,  as 
perky  and  active  as  a  professional.  Besides,  the 
really  unanswerable  problem  is,  who  could  have 
dared  to  make  the  Barkers'  apple-pie  beds?  And 
the  answer  is,  nobody — except  the  Barkers. 

And  there  must  have  been  a  lady  in  it,  it  was  so 
neatly  done.  Everybody  says  no  man  could  have 
done  it.  So  that  shows  you  it  couldn't  have  been 
me — I.   .   .   . 

VI 

I  suspect  Mr.  Winthrop.  Mr.  Winthrop  is 
fifty-three.  He  has  been  in  the  hotel  since  this 
time  last  year,  and  he  makes  accurate  forecasts  of 
the  weather.  My  experience  is  that  a  man  who 
makes  accurate  forecasts  of  the  weather  may  get 
up  to  any  deviltry.  And  he  protests  too  much. 
He  keeps  coming  up  to  me  and  making  long 
speeches  to  prove  that  he  didn't  do  it.  But  I  never 
said  he  did.     Somebody  else  started  that  rumour, 

[108] 


Mystery  of  Apple-pie  Beds 

but  of  course  he  thinks  that  I  did.  That  comes 
of  being  a  professional  humorist. 

But  I  do  believe  he  did  it.  You  see  he  is  fifty- 
three  and  doesn't  dance,  so  he  had  the  whole  even- 
ing to  do  it  in. 

To-night  we  are  going  to  have  a  Court  of  In- 
quiry.  .   .  . 

VII 

We  have  had  the  Inquiry.  I  was  judge.  I 
started  with  Denys  and  Joan  in  the  dock,  as  I 
thought  we  must  have  somebody  there  and  it 
would  look  better  if  it  was  somebody  in  the  fam- 
ily. The  first  witness  was  Mrs.  Barker.  Her  evi- 
dence was  so  unsatisfactory  that  I  had  to  have  her 
put  in  the  dock  too.  So  was  Mr.  Barker's.  I 
was  sorry  to  put  him  in  the  dock,  as  he  still  had 
rheumatics.     But  he  had  to  go. 

So  did  Mr.  Winthrop.  I  had  no  qualms  about 
him.  For  a  man  of  his  age  to  do  a  thing  like  that 
seems  to  me  really  deplorable.  And  the  barefaced 
evasiveness  of  his  evidence !  He  simply  could  not 
account  for  his  movements  during  the  evening  at 
all.  When  I  asked  him  what  he  had  been  doing 
at  9.21,  and  where,  he  actually  said  he  didn't 
know. 

Rather  curious — very  few  people  can  account 
for  their  movements,  or  anyone  else's.     In  most 

[109] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

criminal  trials  the  witnesses  remember  to  a  minute, 
years  after  the  event,  exactly  what  time  they  went 
upstairs  and  when  they  passed  the  prisoner  in  the 
lounge,  but  nobody  seems  to  remember  anything  in 
this  affair.    No  doubt  it  will  come  in  time. 

The  trial  was  very  realistic.  I  was  able  to 
make  one  or  two  excellent  judicial  jokes.  Right 
at  the  beginning  I  said  to  the  prosecuting  counsel, 
"What  is  an  apple-pie  bed?"  and  when  he  had 
explained  I  said  with  a  meaning  look,  "You  mean 
that  the  bed  was  not  in  apple-pie  order?"  Ha, 
ha !     Everybody  laughed  heartily.   .   .   . 

VIII 

In  my  address  to  the  jury  of  matrons  I  was  able 
to  show  pretty  clearly  that  the  crime  was  the  work, 
of  a  gang.  I  proved  that  Denys  and  Joan  must 
have  done  the  bulk  of  the  dirty  work,  under  the 
tactical  direction  of  the  Barkers,  who  did  the  rest; 
while  in  the  background  was  the  sinister  figure  of 
Mr.  Winthrop,  the  strategical  genius,  the  lurking 
Macchiavelli  of  the  gang. 

The  jury  were  not  long  in  considering  their 
verdict.  They  said:  "We  find,  your  Lordship, 
that  you  did  it  yourself,  with  some  lady  or  ladies 
unknown." 

That  comes  of  being  a  professional  humor- 
ist. .  .  . 

[no] 


Mystery  of  Apple-pie  Beds 

IX 

I  ignored  the  verdict.  I  addressed  the  prisoners 
very  severely  and  sentenced  them  to  do  the  Chasm 
hole  from  6.0  a.m.  to  6.0  p.m.  every  day  for  a 
week,  to  take  out  cards  and  play  out  every  stroke. 
"You,  Winthrop,"  I  said,  "with  your  gentlemanly 
cunning,  your  subtle  pretensions  of  righteous- 
ness  "     But  there  is  no  space  for  that.   .   .   . 


As  a  matter  of  fact  the  jury  were  quite  right. 
In  company  with  a  lady  who  shall  be  nameless  I 
did  do  it.  At  least,  at  one  time  I  thought  I  did. 
Only  we  have  proved  so  often  that  somebody  else 
did  it,  we  have  shown  so  conclusively  that  we  can't 
have  done  it,  that  we  find  ourselves  wondering  if 
we  really  did. 

Perhaps  we  didn't. 

If  we  did  we  apologize  to  all  concerned — ex- 
cept, of  course,  to  Mr.  Winthrop.    I  suspect  him. 


[mi 


The  Grasshopper 

THE  Animal  Kingdom  may  be  divided  into 
creatures  which  one  can  feed  and  creatures 
which  one  cannot  feed.    Animals  which  one 
cannot  feed  are  nearly  always  unsatisfactory;  and 
the  grasshopper  is  no  exception.    Anyone  who  has 
tried  feeding  a  grasshopper  will  agree  with  me. 

Yet  he  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  British 
creatures.  The  Encyclopedia  Britannica  is  as 
terse  and  simple  as  ever  about  him.  "Grasshop- 
pers," it  says,  "are  specially  remarkable  for  their 
saltatory  powers,  due  to  the  great  development 
of  the  hind  legs;  and  also  for  their  stridulation, 
which  is  not  always  an  attribute  of  the  male  only." 
To  translate,  grasshoppers  have  a  habit  of  hop- 
ping ("saltatory  powers")  and  chirping  ("stridu- 
lation"). 

It  is  commonly  supposed  that  the  grasshopper 
stridulates  by  rubbing  his  back  legs  together;  but 
this  is  not  the  case.  For  one  thing  I  have  tried  it 
myself  and  failed  to  make  any  kind  of  noise;  and 
for  another,  after  exhaustive  observations,  I  have 

[112] 


The  Grasshopper 

established  the  fact  that,  though  he  does  move 
his  back  legs  every  time  he  stridulates,  his  back 
legs  do  not  touch  each  other.  Now  it  is  a  law 
of  friction  that  you  cannot  have  friction  between 
two  back  legs  if  the  back  legs  are  not  touching; 
in  other  words,  the  grasshopper  does  not  rub  his 
legs  together  to  produce  stridulation,  or,  to  put 
it  quite  shortly,  he  does  not  rub  his  back  legs  to- 
gether at  all.  I  hope  I  have  made  this  point  quite 
clear.  If  not,  a  more  detailed  treatment  will  be 
found  in  the  Paper  which  I  read  to  the  Royal 
Society  in  19 12. 

Nevertheless  I  have  always  felt  that  there  was 
something  fishy  about  the  grasshopper's  back  legs. 
I  mean,  why  should  he  wave  his  legs  about  when 
he  is  stridulating?  My  own  theory  is  that  it  is 
purely  due  to  the  nervous  excitement  produced  by 
the  act  of  singing.  The  same  phenomena  can  be 
observed  in  many  singers  and  public  speakers.  I 
do  not  think  myself  that  we  need  seek  for  a  more 
elaborate  hypothesis.  The  Encyclopedia  Britan- 
nica,  of  course,  says  that  "the  stridulation  or  song 
in  the  Acridiida  is  produced  by  friction  of  the  hind 
legs  against  portions  of  the  wings  or  wing-covers," 
but  that  is  just  the  sort  of  statement  which  the 
scientific  man  thinks  he  can  pass  off  on  the  public 
with  impunity.  Considering  that  stridulation 
takes  place  about  every  ten  seconds,  I  calculate 

["3] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

that  the  grasshopper  must  require  a  new  set  of 
wings  every  ten  days.  It  would  be  more  in  keep- 
ing with  the  traditions  of  our  public  life  if  the 
scientific  man  simply  confessed  that  he  was  baffled 
by  this  problem  of  the  grasshopper's  back  legs. 
Yet,  as  I  have  said,  if  a  public  speaker  may  fidget 
with  his  back  legs  while  he  is  stridulating,  why 
not  a  public  grasshopper?  The  more  I  see  of 
science  the  more  it  strikes  me  as  one  large  mysti- 
fication. 

But  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  that  "the  Acr'i- 
diidce  have  the  auditory  organs  on  the  first  ab- 
dominal segment,"  while  "the  Locustida  have  the 
auditory  organ  on  the  tibia  of  the  first  leg."  In 
other  words,  one  kind  of  grasshopper  hears  with 
its  stomach  and  the  other  kind  listens  with  its  leg. 
When  a  scientific  man  has  committed  himself  to 
that  kind  of  statement  he  would  hardly  have 
qualms  about  a  little  invention  like  the  back-legs 
legend. 

With  this  scientific  preliminary  we  now  come  to 
the  really  intriguing  part  of  our  subject,  and  that 
is  the  place  of  the  grasshopper  in  modern  politics. 
And  the  first  question  is,  Why  -did  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  call  Lord  Northcliffe  a  grasshopper?  I 
think  it  was  in  a  speech  about  Russia  that  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  said,  in  terms,  that  Lord  North- 
cliffe was  a  grasshopper.     And  he  didn't  leave  it 

[ii4] 


The  Grasshopper 

at  that.  He  said  that  Lord  Northcliffe  was  not 
only  a  grasshopper  but  a  something  something 
grasshopper,  grasshopping  here  and  grasshop- 
ping  there — you  know  the  sort  of  thing.  There 
was  nothing  much  in  the  accusation,  of  course,  and 
Lord  Northcliffe  made  no  reply  at  the  time;  in 
fact,  so  far  as  I  know,  he  has  never  publicly  stated 
that  he  is  not  a  grasshopper;  for  all  we  know  it 
may  be  true.  But  I  know  a  man  whose  wife's 
sister  was  in  service  at  a  place  where  there  was  a 
kitchen-maid  whose  young  man  was  once  a  gar- 
dener at  Lord  Northcliffe's,  and  this  man  told 
me — the  first  man,  I  mean — that  Lord  North- 
cliffe took  it  to  heart  terribly.  No  grasshoppers 
were  allowed  in  the  garden  from  that  day  forth; 
no  green  that  was  at  all  like  grasshopper-green 
was  tolerated  in  the  house,  and  the  gardener  used 
to  come  upon  his  Lordship  muttering  in  the  West 
Walk:  "A  grasshopper!  He  called  me  a  grass- 
hopper— me — A  grasshopper!"  The  gardener 
said  that  his  Lordship  used  to  finish  up  with,  "/'ll 
teach  him";  but  that  is  hardly  the  kind  of  thing  a 
lord  would  say,  and  I  don't  believe  it.  In  fact,  I 
don't  believe  any  of  it.    It  is  a  stupid  story. 

But  this  crisis  we  keep  having  with  France  ow- 
ing to  Mr.  Lloyd  George's  infamous  conduct  does 
make  the  story  interesting.  The  suggestion  is, 
you  see,  that  Lord  Northcliffe  lay  low  for  a  long 

["5] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

time,  till  everybody  had  forgotten  about  the  grass- 
hopper and  Mr.  Lloyd  George  thought  that  Lord 
Northcliffe  had  forgotten  about  the  grasshopper, 
and  then,  when  Mr.  Lloyd  George  was  in  a  hole, 
Lord  Northcliffe  said,  "Now  we'll  see  if  I  am  a 
grasshopper  or  not,"  and  started  stridulating  at 
high  speed  about  Mr.  Lloyd  George.  A  crude 
suggestion.  But  if  it  were  true  it  would  mean  that 
the  grasshopper  had  become  a  figure  of  national 
and  international  importance.  It  is  wonderful 
to  think  that  we  might  stop  being  friends  with 
France  just  because  of  a  grasshopper;  and,  if  Lord 
Northcliffe  arranged  for  a  new  Government  to 
come  in,  it  might  very  well  be  called  "The  Grass- 
hopper Government."  That  would  look  fine  in 
the  margins  of  the  history  books. 

Yes,  it  is  all  very  "dramatic."  It  is  exciting  to 
think  of  an  English  lord  nursing  a  grievance  about 
a  grasshopper  for  months  and  months,  seeing 
grasshoppers  in  every  corner,  dreaming  about 
grasshoppers.  .  .  .  But  we  must  not  waste  time 
over  the  fantastic  tale.  We  have  not  yet  solved 
our  principal  problem.  Why  did  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  call  him  a  grasshopper — a  modest, 
friendly  little  grasshopper?  Did  he  mean  to  sug- 
gest that  Lord  Northcliffe  hears  with  his  stomach 
or  stridulates  with  his  back  legs? 

Why  not  an  earwig,  or  a  black-beetle,  or  a 
[116] 


The  Grasshopper 

wood-louse,  or  a  centipede?  There  are  lots  of 
insects  more  offensive  than  the  grasshopper,  and 
personally  I  would  much  rather  be  called  a  grass- 
hopper than  an  earwig,  which  gets  into  people's 
sponges  and  frightens  them  to  death. 

Perhaps  he  had  been  reading  that  nice  passage 
in  the  Prophet  Nahum :  "Thy  captains  are  as  the 
great  grasshoppers,  which  camp  in  the  hedges  in 
the  cold  day,  but  when  the  sun  ariseth  they  flee 
away,  and  their  place  is  not  known  where  they 
are,"  or  the  one  in  Ecclesiastes:  "And  the  grass- 
hopper shall  be  a  burden."  I  do  not  know.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Encyclopaedia  has  a  suggestive 
sentence:  "All  grasshoppers  are  vegetable 
feeders  and  have  an  incomplete  metamorphosis, 
so  that  their  destructive  powers  are  continuous 
from  the  moment  of  emergence  from  the  egg  until 
death." 


["7] 


Little  Bits  of  London 
i 

THE  SUPREME  COURT 

AMONG  those  curious  corners  of  London 
life  which  anyone  may  go  to  see  but  no- 
body does,  one  of  the  most  curious,  and 
(for  about  five  minutes)  interesting,  is  the  House 
of  Lords  sitting  as  the  Supreme  Court  of  Appeal. 
It  is  one  of  the  ordinary  things  which  go  on  and 
on  unnoticed  for  a  lifetime  because  they  have  gone 
on  so  long,  till  one  day  one  begins  to  think  about 
them  and  realizes  suddenly  that  they  were  really 
extraordinary  all  the  time — just  as  one  pro- 
nounces sometimes  with  a  startling  sense  of  its 
absurdity  some  common  English  word.  But  no 
sight-seer,  no  student  of  our  institutions,  and  par- 
ticularly no  one  who  is  interested  in  the  ways  and 
customs  of  individual  trades,  should  fail  to  visit 
the  Supreme  Appellate  Tribunal  of  this  great 
country. 

The   funny  thing  about  the  House   of  Lords 
[118] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

sitting  as  a  court  is  that  it  actually  sits  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  Entering  the  great  red  chamber 
— as  anybody  may  do  if  he  can  find  the  way — one 
receives  the  impression  that  it  is  perfectly  empty, 
save  for  the  knot  of  barristers'  clerks,  solicitors' 
clerks,  pressmen  and  casual  onlookers  who  are 
huddled  round  the  entrance.  Beyond  them  are 
miles,  and  miles,  and  miles  of  red  leather  benches, 
silent,  mournful,  untenanted,  dead.  But  no!  A 
low  monotonous  drone  reaches  you — like  the 
voice  of  a  priest  intoning  at  the  other  end  of  a 
cathedral.  Guided  by  this  sound  you  discover 
faint  traces  of  life  on  one  of  the  vast  red  benches. 
There  is  an  old  man  sitting  on  the  bench,  a  pleas- 
ant, bearded  old  man;  he  does  not  look  at  all 
legal,  and  he  is  dressed  in  every-day  clothes,  hud- 
dled up  in  front  of  a  sort  of  small  card-table  cov- 
ered with  huge  tomes.  He  is  speaking  apparently 
into  space — in  a  kind  of  squeaky  hum,  if  you  can 
imagine  the  sound — fumbling  all  the  time  with 
the  large  brown  tomes. 

Look  again.  Beyond  him,  a  very  long  way  off, 
is  another  old  man,  a  very,  very  jolly  old  man, 
with  another  beard,  another  card-table,  and  more 
tomes.  He  is  staring  with  profundity  at  the 
bench  opposite.  Following  his  gaze,  you  detect 
with  amazement  another  old  man,  all  alone  on  the 
great  red  bench.    No,  not  alone.    With  something 

["9] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

of  the  sensations  of  a  man  who  stands  by  a  stag- 
nant pond  or  looks  at  a  drop  of  drinking  water 
through  a  microscope  to  discover  that  it  is  teem- 
ing with  life,  you  detect  yet  a  fourth  old  man 
on  the  very  same  bench,  though,  of  course,  a  long 
way  away.  Both  of  them  are  equipped  as  the 
others,  though  one  of  them,  for  some  reason  which 
does  not  appear,  has  no  beard.  You  are  ready 
for  anything  now,  so  quite  quickly  you  find  the 
fifth  old  man,  far,  far  away  in  the  distance,  all 
alone  on  an  island  in  the  emptiness,  so  far  off  that 
he  seems  to  be  cut  off  from  all  communication  with 
the  other  old  men,  or  anyone  else.  Yet  suddenly 
his  lips  move,  and  it  is  seen  that  he  is  speaking. 
He  is  the  presiding  old  man,  and  he  begins  speak- 
ing while  the  first  old  man  is  still  droning.  From 
the  faint  movement  of  his  head  and  the  far  gleam 
of  his  eyes  you  draw  the  conclusion  that  he  is 
speaking  to  some  living  creature  in  your  own 
neighborhood;  and,  sure  enough,  you  find  that 
close  to  you,  but  curtained  off,  there  are  seven  or 
eight  men  shut  up  in  a  wooden  pen  about  seven 
feet  square.  These  must  be  the  prisoners,  and 
that  is  the  dock,  you  think.  But  no,  it  is  the  bar- 
risters; as  the  House  of  Lord  is  very  holy  they 
are  only  allowed  to  huddle  on  the  doorstep.  One 
of  them  is  standing  in  front  of  the  pen  at  a  sort 
of  lectern,  wearing  a  big  wig  (the  special  House 
[120] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

of  Lords  wig),  and  waiting  patiently  till  the  old 
men  have  stopped  squeaking.  Most  of  the  other 
men  in  the  pen  are  asleep,  but  two  of  them  are 
crouching  intently  behind  the  other  one,  and  they 
keep  tugging  at  his  gown,  or  poking  him  in  the 
back,  and  whispering  suggestions  at  him.  When 
they  do  this  he  whispers  back  with  an  aspect  of 
calm,  "Yes,  yes — I  follow,"  but  you  know  he  does 
not  follow,  and  you  know  he  is  really  in  a  great 
rage,  because  he  is  trying  to  hear  with  the  other 
ear  what  the  old  man  is  saying,  and  the  old  man  is 
so  far  away  and  his  voice  is  so  gentle,  and  his 
sentences  are  so  long  and  so  full  of  parentheses, 
very  often  in  Latin,  that  it  is  hard  enough  to  have 
to  follow  him,  without  being  whispered  at  from 
the  rear. 

At  last  the  old  man  shuts  his  mouth  very  firmly 
in  a  legal  manner,  and  it  is  clear  that  he  has 
stopped  speaking.  It  is  the  barrister's  turn.  He 
starts  off  with  a  huge  sentence  about  "the  pre- 
sumption of  intent  under  the  Drains  and  Mort- 
gages (Consolidation)  Act,  1892,"  but  when  he 
is  right  in  the  middle  of  it  the  fourth  old  man, 
whom  everybody  supposed  to  be  fast  asleep,  wakes 
up  and  asks  the  barrister  an  awkward  question 
about  the  Amending  Act  of  1899,  just  to  show 
that  he  has  got  a  grip  of  the  whole  thing.  The 
barrister  has  not  the  faintest  idea  what  the  answer 

[121] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

is,  but  he  begins  one  immediately,   as  if  it  was 
quite  easy,   for  that  is  the  game.     While  he  is 
groping  about  in  the  middle  of  a  huge   remark 
which  means  nothing  at  present  but  may  very  likely 
lead  him  to  the  right  answer  in  the  end,  the  third 
old  man,  in  order  to  confuse  the  barrister,  makes 
an  interjection  which  he  pretends  is  on  the  same 
point,  but  is  really  on  a  totally  different  point, 
which  the  barrister  did  not  propose  to  deal  with 
for  days  and  days  to  come.     When  I  say  "inter- 
jection" I  mean  that  he  delivers  extremely  slowly 
a  sentence  of  inconceivable  duration,  a  sentence 
so  long  that  it  seems  really  as  if  it  would  never 
end.     Finally,  the  presiding  old  man  decides  that 
it  is  time  it  did  end,  so  he  interrupts  rather  testily. 
Then  all  the  old  men  frankly  abandon  the  pre- 
tence that  the  barrister  has  got  anything  to  do 
with  it,  and  they  just  argue  quietly  with  each  other 
across  the  vast  red  spaces.     Meanwhile,  the  poor 
men  in  the  pen  try  to  stretch  their  legs,  and  mutter 
fiercely  at  each  other.     Four  or  five  of  them  are 
immensely  distinguished  K.C.'s,  earning  thousands 
and  thousands  a  year,  the  very  first  men  in  their 
profession.    Yet  they  tamely  submit  to  being  con- 
fined in  a  tiny  space  where  there  is  no  room  for 
their  papers,  or  their  tomes,  let  alone  their  legs, 
for  days  and  days  and  sometimes  weeks,  with  the 
whole  of  the  House  of  Lords  empty  in  front  of 

[122] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

them  except  for  the  five  old  men  who  spend  the 
day  badgering  them  at  ease  from  comfortable 
sofas. 

To  argue  a  case  in  the  House  of  Lords  must 
be  one  of  the  severest  strains  to  which  middle- 
aged  men  are  ever  subjected;  it  requires  tremend- 
ous qualities  of  concentration  and  patience  and  in- 
tellectual quickness  (not  to  speak,  of  the  labour 
of  preparing  the  cases  beforehand).  At  half-past 
one,  when  they  have  endured  this  for  three  hours, 
they  dash  out  to  lunch;  they  are  lucky  if  they  get 
anything  to  eat  before  twenty  minutes  to  two, 
but  at  two  (presumably  because  the  House  of 
Lords  is  required  for  legislative  purposes  when 
they  have  done  with  it)  they  have  to  dash  back 
to  the  pen  again,  where  digestion  must  be  quite 
impossible,  even  if  you  are  not  required  to  argue 
with  the  old  men.  No  manual  labourer  in  the 
world  would  tolerate  such  conditions  for  a  day. 
Either  he  would  break  out  of  the  pen  and  put 
up  his  feet  on  the  red  benches,  or,  very  sensibly, 
he  would  insist  that  the  House  of  Lords,  when 
sitting  as  a  court,  must  sit  in  a  place  which  was 
suitable  for  a  court,  if  it  was  only  a  committee- 
room  in  the  upper  purlieus  of  the  House. 

I  cannot  imagine  why  the  barristers  do  not  say 
that.  It  is  not  as  if  there  was  any  impressive 
pomp  or  ceremony  connected  with  this  archaic  sur- 

[123] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

vival;  if  there  were,  it  might  be  worth  it.  But 
nothing  could  be  less  impressive  than  these  old 
men  mumbling  desolately  in  everyday  clothes  and 
beards  at  rows  and  rows  of  empty  red  sofas.  I 
am  told  that  when  the  Lord  Chancellor  presides 
he  does  wear  robes,  but  the  other  Lords  still  wear 
mufti.  That  must  be  a  great  sight,  but  not,  I 
should  think,  extravagantly  solemn. 

But  perhaps  that  is  the  real  secret  of  the  British 
Constitution — our  capacity  to  extract  solemnity 
from  the  incongruous  or  the  merely  dull.  I  once 
heard  the  House  of  Lords  deliver  judgment — 
after  days  and  days  of  argument — in  a  case  of 
the  highest  constitutional  importance,  involving 
the  rights  of  the  Crown,  and  what  remain  of  the 
rights  of  the  subject.  All  England  was  waiting 
with  real  interest  for  the  issue.  One  by  one  the 
old  men  read  out  their  long  opinions,  opinions  of 
great  profundity  and  learning  and  care,  opinions 
of  the  greatest  judges  in  the  land,  universally  and 
rightly  respected,  opinions  that  will  be  quoted  in 
every  history  and  text-book,  in  every  constitutional 
case,  for  hundreds  of  years  to  come.  It  took 
nearly  a  day  to  read  them.  While  they  were  be- 
ing read,  the  old  men  who  were  not  reading,  the 
barristers,  the  odd  dozen  of  "the  public,"  the 
clerks,  everybody — sat  or  stood  in  a  sort  of  coma 
of  stupefied  boredom,  gazing  at  nothing.  No  one 
[124] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

stirred.  Only,  very  far  away,  the  gentle  voice  of 
the  old  man  might  have  been  heard  rolling  up  to 
the  roof,  and  squeaking  about  in  the  corners,  and 
buzzing  about  like  a  sleepy  bee  under  the  benches 
— and  always  with  a  faint  note  of  querulous 
amazement,  as  if  the  old  man  could  not  believe 
that  anyone  was  listening  to  what  he  was  saying. 
And  he  was  right — for  nobody  was. 
We  are  a  marvellous  nation. 


C"S] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

ii 

"the  bear  garden" 

THE  authors  of  the  guide-books  have  sig- 
nally failed  to  discover  the  really  interest- 
ing parts  of  Law-land.  I  have  looked 
through  several  of  these  books  and  not  one  of 
them  refers,  for  example,  to  the  "Bear-Garden," 
which  is  the  place  where  the  preliminary  skirmishes 
of  litigation  are  carried  out.  The  Bear-Garden 
is  the  name  given  to  it  by  the  legal  profession,  so 
I  am  quite  in  order  in  using  the  title.  In  fact,  if 
you  want  to  get  to  it,  you  have  to  use  that  title. 
The  proper  title  would  be  something  like  The 
Place  where  Masters  in  Chambers  function  at 
Half-past  One :  but  if  you  go  into  the  Law  Courts 
and  ask  one  of  the  attendants  where  that  is,  he 
will  say,  rather  pityingly,  "Do  you  mean  the  Bear- 
Garden?"  And  you  will  know  at  once  that  you 
have  lost  caste.  Caste  is  a  thing  you  should  be 
very  careful  of  in  these  days;  so  the  best  thing  is 

[126] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

to  ask  for  the  Bear-Garden  straightaway.  It  is 
in  the  purlieus  of  the  Law  Courts,  and  very  hard 
to  find.  It  is  up  a  lot  of  very  dingy  back  stair- 
cases and  down  a  lot  of  very  dingy  passages.  The 
Law  Courts  are  like  all  our  public  buildings.  The 
parts  where  the  public  is  allowed  to  go  are  fairly 
respectable,  if  not  beautiful,  but  the  purlieus  and 
the  basements  and  the  upper  floors  are  scenes  of 
unimaginable  dinginess  and  decay.  The  Law 
Courts'  purlieus  are  worse  than  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  purlieus;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  even 
more  disgraceful  things  are  done  in  them.  It  only 
shows  you  the  dangers  of  Nationalization. 

On  the  way  to  the  Bear-Garden  you  pass  the 
King's  Remembrancer's  rooms;  this  is  the  man 
who  reminds  His  Majesty  about  people's  birth- 
days; and  in  a  large  family  like  that  he  must  be 
kept  busy.  Not  far  from  the  King's  Remem- 
brancer there  is  a  Commissioner  for  Oaths;  you 
can  go  into  this  room  and  have  a  really  good 
swear  for  about  half  a  crown.  This  is  cheaper 
than  having  it  in  the  street — that  is,  if  you  are 
a  gentleman;  for  by  the  Profane  Oaths  Act,  1745, 
swearing  and  cursing  is  punishable  by  a  fine  of 
is.  for  every  day-labourer,  soldier  or  seaman;  2s. 
for  every  other  person  under  the  degree  of  gentle- 
man; and  5s.  for  every  person  far  above  the  de- 
gree of  gentleman.    This  is  not  generally  known. 

[127] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

The  Commissioner  for  Oaths  is  a  very  broad- 
minded  man,  and  there  is  literally  no  limit  to  what 
you  may  swear  before  him.  The  only  thing  is 
that  he  insists  on  your  filing  it  before  you  actually 
say  it.  This  may  cause  delay,  so  that  if  you  are 
feeling  particularly  strongly  about  anything,  it  is 
probably  better  to  have  it  out  in  the  street  and  risk 
being  taken  for  a  gentleman. 

There  are  a  number  of  other  interesting  func- 
tionaries on  the  way  to  the  Bear-Garden;  but  we 
must  get  on.  When  you  have  wandered  about 
in  the  purlieus  for  a  long  time  you  will  hear  a  tre- 
mendous noise,  a  sort  of  combined  snarling  and 
roaring  and  legal  conversation.  When  you  hear 
that  you  will  know  that  you  are  very  near  the 
bears.  They  are  all  snarling  and  roaring  in  a  large 
preliminary  arena,  where  the  bears  prepare  them- 
selves for  the  struggle;  all  round  it  are  smaller 
cages  or  arenae,  where  the  struggle  takes  place. 
If  possible,  you  ought  to  go  early  so  that  you  can 
watch  the  animals  massing.  Lawyers,  as  I  have 
had  occasion  to  observe  before,  are  the  most  long- 
suffering  profession  in  the  country,  and  the  things 
they  do  in  the  Bear-Garden  they  have  to  do  in  the 
luncheon-hour,  or  rather  in  the  luncheon  half- 
hour,  1.30  to  2.  This  accounts,  perhaps,  for  the 
extreme  frenzy  of  the  proceedings.  They  hurry 
in  in  a  frenzy  up  the  back  stairs  about  1.25,  and 

[128] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

they  pace  up  and  down  in  a  frenzy  till  the  time 
comes.  There  are  all  sorts  of  bears,  most  of  them 
rather  seedy  old  bears,  with  shaggy  and  unkempt 
coats.  These  are  solicitors'  clerks,  and  they  all 
come  straight  out  of  Dickens.  They  have  shiny 
little  private-school  handbags,  each  inherited,  no 
doubt,  through  a  long  line  of  ancestral  solicitors' 
clerks;  and  they  all  have  the  draggled  sort  of 
moustache  that  tells  you  when  it  is  going  to  rain. 
While  they  are  pacing  up  and  down  the  arena  they 
all  try  to  get  rid  of  these  moustaches  by  pulling 
violently  at  alternate  ends;  but  the  only  result  is 
to  make  it  look  more  like  rain  than  ever.  Some 
of  the  bears  are  robust  old  bears,  with  well-kept 
coats  and  loud  roars;  these  are  solicitors'  clerks 
too,  only  better-fed;  or  else  they  are  real  solicitors. 
And  a  few  of  the  bears  are  perky  young  creatures 
— in  barrister's  robes — either  for  the  first  time — 
when  they  look  very  self-conscious — or  for  the 
second  time — when  they  look  very  self-confident. 
All  the  bears  are  telling  each  other  about  their 
cases.  They  are  saying,  "We  are  a  deceased 
wife's  sister  suing  in  forma  pauperis,"  or,  I  am  a 
discharged  bankrupt,  three  times  convicted  of  per- 
jury, but  I  am  claiming  damages  under  the  Dis- 
eases of  Pigs  Act,  1862,"  or  "You  are  the  crew  of 
a  merchant  ship  and  we  are  the  editor  of  a  news- 
paper  "    Just  at  first  it  is  rather  disturbing  to 

[129] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

hear  snatches  of  conversation  like  that,  but  there 
is  no  real  cause  for  alarm;  they  are  only  identify- 
ing themselves  with  the  interests  of  their  clients, 
and  when  one  realizes  that  one  is  a  little  touched. 
At  last  one  of  the  keepers  at  the  entrance  to  the 
small  cages  begins  to  shout  very  loudly.  It  is  not 
at  all  clear  what  he  is  shouting,  but  apparently  it 
is  the  pet-names  of  the  bears,  for  there  is  a  wild 
rush  for  the  various  cages.  Attaching  himself  to 
this  rush  the  observer  is  swept  with  a  struggling 
mass  of  bears  past  the  keeper  into  a  cage.  Across 
the  middle  of  the  cage  a  stout  barricade  has  been 
erected,  and  behind  the  barricade  sits  the  Master, 
pale  but  defiant.  Masters  in  Chambers  are  bar- 
risters who  have  not  the  proper  legal  faces  and 
have  had  to  give  up  being  ordinary  barristers  on 
that  account;  in  the  obscurity  and  excitement  of 
the  Bear-Garden  nobody  notices  that  their  faces 
are  all  wrong.  The  two  chief  bears  rush  at  the 
Master  and  the  other  bears  jostle  round  them, 
egging  them  on.  When  they  see  that  they  can- 
not get  at  the  Master  they  begin  snarling.  One 
of  them  snarls  quietly  out  of  a  long  document 
about  the  Statement  of  Claim.  He  throws  a  copy 
of  this  at  the  Master,  and  the  Master  tries  to 
get  the  hang  of  it  while  the  bear  is  snarling;  but 
the  other  bear  is  by  now  beside  himself  with  rage 
and  he  begins  putting  in  what  are  called  interloc- 

[130] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

utory  snarls,  so  that  the  Master  gets  terribly  con- 
fused, though  he  doesn't  let  on.  By  and  by  all 
pretence  of  formality  and  order  is  put  aside,  and 
the  battle  really  begins.  At  this  stage  of  the  pro- 
ceedings the  rule  is  that  not  less  than  two  of  the 
protagonists  must  be  roaring  at  the  same  time,  of 
which  one  must  be  the  Master.  But  the  more 
general  practice  is  for  all  three  of  them  to  roar 
at  the  same  time.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  by  sheer 
roar-power,  the  Master  succeeds  in  silencing  one 
of  the  bears  for  a  moment,  but  he  can  never  be 
said  to  succeed  in  cowing  a  bear.  If  anybody  is 
cowed  it  is  the  Master.  Meanwhile,  the  lesser 
bears  press  closer  and  closer,  pulling  at  the  damp 
ends  of  their  rainy  moustaches  and  making  whis- 
pered suggestions  for  new  devilries  in  the  ears  of 
the  chief  bears,  who  nod  their  heads  emphatically, 
but  don't  pay  any  attention.  The  final  stage  is  the 
stage  of  physical  violence,  when  the  chief  bears 
lean  over  the  barricade  and  shake  their  paws  at 
the  Master;  they  think  they  are  only  making 
legal  gestures,  but  the  Master  knows  very  well 
that  they  are  getting  out  of  hand;  he  knows  then 
that  it  is  time  he  threw  them  a  bun.  So  he  says 
a  soothing  word  to  each  of  them  and  runs  his  pen 
savagely  through  almost  everything  on  their 
papers.  The  bears  growl  in  stupefaction  and  rage, 
and  take  deep  breaths  to  begin  again.     But  mean- 

[131] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

while  the  keeper  has  shouted  for  a  fresh  set  of 
bears,  who  surge  wildly  into  the  room.  The  old 
bears  are  swept  aside  and  creep  out,  grunting. 
What  the  result  of  it  all  is  I  don't  know.  Nobody 
knows.    The  new  bears  begin  snarling.    .    .    . 


[132] 


Little  Bits  of  London 
in 

BILLINGSGATE 

IN  order  to  see  Billingsgate  properly  in  action 
it  is  necessary  to  get  up  at  half-past  four  and 
travel  on  the  Underground  by  the  first  train 
East,  which  is  an  adventure  in  itself.  The  first 
train  East  goes  at  three  minutes  past  five,  and 
there  are  large  numbers  of  people  who  travel  in 
it  every  day;  by  Charing  Cross  it  is  almost 
crowded.  It  is  full  of  Bolshevists;  and  I  do  not 
wonder.  One  sits  with  one's  feet  up  in  a  first- 
class  carriage,  clutching  a  nice  cheap  workman's 
ticket  and  trying  hard  to  look  as  if,  like  the  Bol- 
shevists, one  did  this  every  day. 

On  arriving  at  the  Monument  Station  one  walks 
briskly  past  the  seductive  announcement  that  "The 
Monument  is  Now  Open,"  and  plunges  into  a 
world  of  fish.  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand why  fish  are  so  funny.  On  the  comic  stage 
a  casual  reference  to  fish  is  almost  certain  to  pro- 

[133] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

voke  a  shout  of  laughter;  in  practice,  and  especi- 
ally in  the  mass,  it  is  not  so  funny;  it  is  like  the 
Government,  an  inexhaustible  source  of  humour 
at  a  distance,  and  in  the  flesh  extraordinarily  dull. 

Over  the  small  streets  which  surround  the  mar- 
ket hangs  a  heavy  pall  of  fishy  vapour.  The 
streets  are  full  of  carts;  the  carts  are  full  of  fish. 
The  houses  in  the  streets  are  fish-dealers'  places, 
more  or  less  full  of  fish.  The  pavements  are  full 
of  fish-porters,  carrying  fish,  smelling  of  fish. 
Fragments  of  conversation  are  heard,  all  about 
fish.  Fish  lie  sadly  in  the  gutters.  The  scales  of 
fish  glitter  on  the  pavements.  A  little  vigorous 
swimming  through  the  outlying  fisheries  brings 
you  to  the  actual  market,  which  is  even  more  won- 
derful. Imagine  a  place  like  Covent  Garden,  and 
nearly  as  big,  but  entirely  devoted  to  fish.  In  the 
place  of  those  enchanting  perspectives  of  flower- 
stalls,  imagine  enormous  regiments  of  fish-stalls, 
paraded  in  close  order  and  groaning  with  halibut 
and  conger-eel,  with  whiting  and  lobsters  and  huge 
crabs.  Round  these  stalls  the  wholesale  dealers 
wade  ankle-deep  in  fish.  Steadily,  maliciously,  the 
great  fish  slide  off  the  stalls  on  to  the  floor;  stead- 
ily the  dealers  recover  them  and  pile  them  up  on 
their  small  counters,  or  cast  them  through  the 
air  on  to  other  counters,  or  fling  them  into  baskets 
in  rage  or  mortification  or  sheer  bravado. 

[134] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

The  dealers  are  men  with  business-faces,  in  long 
white  coats,  surprisingly  clean.  Every  now  and 
then  they  stop  throwing  crabs  into  baskets  or  re- 
trieving halibut  from  the  floor,  and  make  little 
entries  in  long  note-books.  I  do  not  know  exactly 
what  entries  they  make,  but  I  think  they  must  all 
be  in  for  some  competition,  and  are  making  notes 
about  their  scores;  one  man  I  watched  had  obvi- 
ously just  beaten  the  record  for  halibut  retrieving. 
He  retrieved  so  many  in  about  a  minute  that  the 
tops  of  his  boots  were  just  beginning  to  show. 
When  he  had  done  that  he  made  such  long  notes 
in  his  book  about  it  that  most  of  the  halibut  slide 
on  to  the  floor  again  while  he  was  doing  it.  Then 
he  began  all  over  again.  But  I  expect  he  won 
the  prize. 

Meanwhile  about  a  million  fish-porters  are 
dashing  up  and  down  the  narrow  avenues  between 
the  fish-stalls,  porting  millions  of  boxes  of  fish. 
Nearly  all  of  them,  I  am  glad  to  say,  have  been  in 
the  army  or  have  had  a  relative  in  the  army;  for 
they  are  nearly  all  wearing  the  full  uniform  of  a 
company  cook,  which  needs  no  description.  On 
their  heads  they  have  a  kind  of  india-rubber  hat, 
and  on  the  india-rubber  hat  they  have  a  large  box 
of  fish  weighing  about  six  stone — six  stone,  I  tell 
you.  This  box  they  handle  as  if  it  was  a  box  of 
cigars.     They  pick  it  up  with  a  careless  gesture; 

[135] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

they  carry  it  as  if  it  was  a  slightly  uncomfortable 
hat,  and  they  throw  it  down  with  another  care- 
less gesture,  usually  on  to  another  box  of  fish; 
this  explains  why  so  many  of  one's  herrings  ap- 
pear to  have  been  maimed  at  sea. 

When  they  have  finished  throwing  the  boxes 
about  they  too  take  out  a  notebook  and  make  notes 
about  it  all.  This,  it  seems,  is  to  make  sure  that 
they  are  paid  something  for  throwing  each  box 
about.  I  don't  blame  them.  It  must  be  a  hard 
life.  Yet  if  I  thought  I  could  pick  up  six  stone 
of  salmon  and  plaice  and  throw  it  about  I  should 
sign  on  at  Billingsgate  at  once.  It  is  true  they 
start  work  about  five ;  but  they  stop  work,  it  seems, 
about  ten,  and  they  earn  a  pound  and  over  for 
that.  Then  they  can  go  home.  Most  of  them,  I 
imagine,  are  stockbrokers  during  the  rest  of  the 
day. 

And  they  are  a  refined  and  gentlemanly  body  of 
men.  I  hope  the  old  legend  that  the  fish-porter  of 
Billingsgate  expresses  himself  in  terms  too  forcible 
for  the  ordinary  man  is  now  exploded;  for  it  is 
a  slander.  In  fact,  it  is  a  slander  to  call  him  a 
"porter";  at  least  in  these  days  I  suppose  it  is 
libellous  to  connect  a  man  falsely  with  the  N.U.R., 
if  only  by  verbal  implication.  But,  however  that 
may  be,  I  here  assert  that  the  Billingsgate  fish- 
porter  is  a  comparatively  smooth  and  courteous 

[136] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

personage,  and,  considering  his  constant  associa- 
tion with  fish  in  bulk,  I  think  it  is  wonderful. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  market  is  the  river 
Thames;  and  on  the  river  Thames  there  is  a  ship 
or  two,  chockful  of  fish.  Fish-porters  with  a  kind 
of  blase  animation  run  up  and  down  a  long  gang- 
way to  the  ship  with  six-stone  boxes  of  fine  fresh 
whiting  on  their  heads.  These  boxes  they  pile  up 
on  a  chute  (carefully  noting  each  box  in  their  note- 
books), after  which  an  auctioneer  auctions  the 
boxes.  This  is  the  really  exciting  part  of  the  show. 
The  dealers  or  the  dealers'  agents  stand  round  in 
a  hungry  ring  and  buy  the  boxes  of  fish  as  they 
slide  down  the  chute.  The  dealers  seem  to  detail 
a  less  cultured  type  of  man  for  this  purpose,  and 
few  of  the  bidders  come  up  to  the  standard  of  re- 
finement of  the  fish-porters.  But  the  auctioneer 
understands  them,  and  he  knows  all  their  Christian 
names.  He  can  tell  at  a  glance  whether  it  is 
Mossy  Isaacs  or  Sam  Isaacs.  He  is  a  very  clever 
man. 

They  stand  round  looking  at  the  boxes  of  fish, 
and  when  one  of  them  twitches  the  flesh  of  his 
nose  or  faintly  moves  one  of  his  eyelashes  it  means 
that  he  has  bought  six  stone  of  whiting  for  thirty 
shillings.  That  is  the  only  kind  of  sign  they  give, 
and  the  visitor  will  be  wise  not  to  catch  the  auc- 
tioneer's eye,  or  blow  his  nose  or  do  any  overt 

[137] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

action  like  that,  or  he  may  find  that  he  has  bought 
six  stone  of  salmon  and  halibut  for  forty-five  shil- 
lings. At  an  auction  of  fish  it  is  true  to  say  that  a 
nod  is  as  good  as  a  wink;  in  fact,  it  is  worse. 

The  dealers  are  silent,  motionless  men;  but  no- 
body else  is.  Everybody  else  is  dashing  about 
and  shouting  as  loud  as  he  can.  As  each  box  of 
fish  is  sold  the  porters  dash  at  it  and  shout  at  it 
(of  course  in  a  very  gentlemanly  way)  and  carry 
it  off  in  all  directions.  It  is  quite  clear  that  no- 
body knows  who  has  bought  it  or  where  it  is  go- 
ing. The  idea  of  the  whole  thing  is  to  impress 
the  visitor  with  the  mobility  of  fish,  and  this  ob- 
ject is  successfully  attained.  No  doubt  when  tne 
visitors  have  gone  away  they  settle  down  and  de- 
cide definitely  who  is  to  have  the  fish. 

It  is  now  about  half-past  six.  Fish  is  still  rush- 
ing in  at  one  end  from  the  ship  and  is  rushing  in 
at  the  other  from  the  rail-vans.  The  porters  are 
throwing  the  fish  at  the  dealers'  stalls  (registering 
each  hit  in  their  notebooks),  and  the  dealers  are 
throwing  it  on  to  the  floor  or  throwing  it  at  each 
other  or  trying  to  throw  it  at  a  retailer,  who  al- 
ways puts  on  a  haughty  air  and  passes  on  to  the 
next  stall,  till  he  gets  too  entangled  in  the  game 
and  finds  that  he  has  bought  twenty-four  stone  of 
whiting  at  twopence  a  pound;  then  he  throws  it 
at  some  more  porters,  and  the  porters  dash  out- 

[138] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

side  and  throw  it  at  the  carts,  and  the  carts  clatter 
away  to  Kensington,  and  my  wife  buys  a  whiting 
at  tenpence  a  pound,  and  the  circle  of  fish  organi- 
zation is  complete. 

At  about  this  point  it  is  a  good  thing  to  pass 
on  to  Covent  Garden  and  buy  some  flowers. 


[139] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

IV 

THE  BLOATER  SHOW 

THE  last  time  I  was  at  Olympia — as  every- 
body says  at  the  door — it  was  a  Horse 
Show.  But  this  time  it  is  much  the  same. 
There  they  stand  in  their  stalls,  the  dear,  magni- 
ficent, patient  creatures,  with  their  glossy  coats 
and  their  beautiful  curves,  their  sensitive  radiators 
sniffing  for  something  over  the  velvet  ropes.  Pant- 
ing, I  know  they  are,  to  be  out  in  the  open  again; 
and  yet  I  fancy  they  enjoy  it  all  in  a  way.  It  would 
be  ungrateful  if  they  did  not;  for,  after  all,  the 
whole  thing  has  been  arranged  for  them.  The 
whole  idea  of  the  Show  is  to  let  the  motors  in- 
spect the  bloaters — and  not  what  you  think.  (You 
don't  know  what  bloaters  are?  'Well,  I  can't  ex- 
plain without  being  rude.) 

All  the  year  round  they  can  study  ad  nauseam 
their  own  individual  bloaters;  but  this  is  the  only 
occasion  on  which  they  have  the  whole  world  of 
[140] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

bloaters  paraded  in  front  of  them  for  inspection. 
Now  only  can  they  compare  notes  and  exchange 
grievances. 

And  how  closely  they  study  the  parade.  Here 
is  a  pretty  limousine,  a  blonde;  see  how  she 
watches  the  two  huge  exhibits  in  front  of  her. 
They  are  very  new  bloaters,  and  one  of  them — 
oh,  horror! — one  of  them  is  going  to  buy.  He 
has  never  bought  before;  she  knows  his  sort.  He 
will  drive  her  to  death;  he  may  even  drive  her 
himself;  he  will  stroke  her  lovely  coat  in  a  famil- 
iar, proprietary  fashion;  he  will  show  her  off  un- 
ceasingly to  other  bloaters  till  she  is  hot  all  over 
and  the  water  boils  in  her  radiator.  He  will  hold 
forth  with  a  horrible  intimacy  and  a  yet  more  hor- 
rible ignorance  on  the  most  private  secrets  of  her 
inner  life.  Not  one  throb  of  her  young  cylinders 
will  be  sacred,  yet  never  will  he  understand  her  as 
she  would  like  to  be  understood.  He  will  mess 
her  with  his  muddy  boots;  He  will  scratch  her 
paint;  he  will  drop  tobacco-ash  all  over  the  cush- 
ions— though  not  from  pipes;  cigars  only.    .    .    . 

There — he  has  bought  her.  It  is  a  tragedy. 
Let  us  move  on. 

Here  is  a  little  coupe — a  smart  young  creature 
with  a  nice  blue  coat,  fond  of  town,  I  should  say, 
but  quite  at  home  in  the  country.  She  also  is 
inspecting  two  bloaters.     But  these  two  are  very 

[141] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

shy.  In  fact,  they  are  not  really  bloaters  at  all; 
they  are  rather  a  pair  of  nicemannered  fresh  her- 
rings, not  long  mated.  The  male  had  something 
to  do  with  that  war,  I  should  think;  the  coupe 
would  help  him  a  good  deal.  The  lady  likes  her 
because  she  is  dark-blue.  The  other  one  likes  her 
because  of  something  to  do  with  her  works;  but  he 
is  very  reverent  and  tactful  about  it.  He  seems  to 
know  that  he  is  being  scrutinized,  for  he  is  ner- 
vous, and  scarcely  dares  to  speak  about  her  to  the 
groom  in  the  top-hat.  He  will  drive  her  himself; 
he  will  look  after  her  himself;  he  will  know  all 
about  her,  all  about  her  moods  and  fancies  and 
secret  failings;  he  will  humour  and  coax  her,  and 
she  will  serve  him  very  nobly. 

Already,  you  see,  they  have  given  her  a  name — 
"Jane,"  I  think  they  said;  they  will  creep  off  into 
the  country  with  her  when  the  summer  comes,  all 
by  themselves;  they  will  plunge  into  the  middle  of 
thick  forests  and  sit  down  happily  in  the  shade  at 
midday  and  look  at  her;  and  she  will  love  them. 

But  the  question  is Ah,  they  are  shaking 

their  heads;  they  are  edging  away.  She  is  too 
much.  They  look  back  sadly  as  they  go.  An- 
other tragedy.    .    .    . 

Now  I  am  going  to  be  a  bloater  myself.  Here 
is  a  jolly  one,  though  her  stable-name  is  much  too 
long.     She  is  a  Saloon-de-Luxe  and  she  only  costs 

[142] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

£2125  (why  5,  I  wonder — why  not  6?).  I  can 
run  to  that,  surely.  At  any  rate  I  can  climb  up 
and  sit  down  on  her  cushions;  none  of  the  grooms 
are  looking.  Dark  blue,  I  see,  like  Jane.  That 
is  the  sort  of  car  I  prefer.  I  am  like  the  lady  her- 
ring; I  don't  approve  of  all  this  talk  about  the 
insides  of  things ;  it  seems  to  me  to  be  rather  in- 
decent— unless,  of  course,  you  do  it  very  nicely, 
like  that  young  herring.  When  you  go  and  look  at 
a  horse  you  don't  ask  how  its  sweetbread  is  ar- 
ranged, or  what  is  the  principle  of  its  lever.  Then 
why  should  you    .    .    .  ? 

Well,  here  we  are,  and  very  comfortable  too. 
But  why  do  none  of  these  cars  have  any  means  of 
communication  between  the  owner  and  the  man 
next  to  the  chauffeur?  There  is  always  a  tele- 
phone to  the  chauffeur,  but  none  to  the  overflow 
guest  on  the  box.  So  that  when  the  host  sees  an 
old  manor-house  which  he  thinks  the  guest  hasn't 
noticed  he  has  to  hammer  on  the  glass  and  do  sem- 
aphore; and  the  guest  thinks  he  is  being  asked  if 
he  is  warm  enough. 

Otherwise,  though,  this  is  a  nice  car.  It  is  very 
cosy  in  here.  Dark,  and  quiet,  and  warm.  I 
could  go  to  sleep  in  here. 

What?  What's  that?  No,  I  don't  really  want 
to  buy  it,  thank  you.     I  just  wanted  to  see  if  it 

[143] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

was  a  good  sleeping  car.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
think  it  is.  But  I  don't  like  the  colour.  And  what 
I  really  want  is  a  cabriolet.  Good  afternoon, 
thank  you.    .     .    . 

A  pleasant  gentleman,  that.  I  wish  I  could  have 
bought  the  saloon.  She  would  have  liked  me.  So 
would  he,  I  expect. 

Well,  we  had  better  go  home.  I  shan't  buy  any 
more  cars  today.  And  we  won't  go  up  to  the 
gallery;  there  is  nothing  but  oleo-plugs  and  gra- 
phite-grease up  there.  That  sort  of  thing  spoils 
the  romance. 

Ah,  here  is  dear  Jane  again !  What  a  pity  it 
was —  Hullo,  they  have  come  back — that  nice 
young  couple.  They  are  bargaining — they  are 
beating  him  down.  No,  he  is  beating  them  up. 
Go  on — go  on.  Yes,  you  can  run  to  that — of 
course  you  can.  Sell  those  oil  shares.  Look  at 
her — look  at  her!  You  can't  leave  her  here  for 
one  of  the  bloaters.  He  wavers;  he  consults. 
"Such  a  lovely  colour."  Ah,  that's  done  it!  He 
has  decided.  He  has  bought.  She  has  bought. 
They  have  bought.     Hurrah  ! 


[i44] 


Little  Bits  of  London 


BOND  STREET 

1FIND  it  very  difficult  to  walk  slowly  down 
Bond  Street  as  one  ought  to  do;  I  always 
feel  so  guilty.  Most  of  the  people  there 
look  scornfully  at  me  as  if  I  belonged  to  White- 
chapel,  and  the  rest  look  suspiciously  at  me  as  if 
I  belonged  to  Bond  Street.  My  clothes  are  neither 
good  enough  or  bad  enough.  So  I  hurry  through 
with  the  tense  expression  of  a  man  who  is  merely 
using  Bond  Street  as  a  thoroughfare,  because  it 
is  the  way  to  his  dentist — as  indeed  in  my  case  it 
is.  But  recently  I  did  saunter  in  the  proper  way, 
and  I  took  a  most  thrilling  inventory  of  the  prin- 
cipal classes  of  shops,  the  results  of  which  have 
now  been  tabulated  by  my  statistical  department. 
For  instance,  do  you  know  how  many  shops  in 
the  street  sell  things  for  ladies  to  wear  (not  in- 
cluding boots,  jewellery  or  shoes)  ?  No?  Well, 
there  are  thirty-three.    Not  many,  is  it?    But  then 

[145] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

there  are  twenty-one  jewellers  (including  pearl 
shops)  and  eight  boot  and/or  shoe  shops;  so  that, 
with  two  sort  of  linen  places,  which  may  fairly 
be  reckoned  as  female,  the  ladies'  total  is  sixty- 
four.  I  only  counted  a  hundred  and  fifty  shops 
altogether.  Of  that  total,  nine  are  places  where 
men  can  buy  things  to  wear,  and  ten  are  places 
where  they  can  buy  things  to  smoke ;  I  have  char- 
itably debited  all  the  cigarette-shops  to  the  men, 
even  the  ones  where  the  cigarettes  are  tipped  with 
rose-leaves  and  violet  petals.  But  even  if  I  do 
that  and  give  the  men  the  two  places  where  you 
can  buy  guns  and  throw  in  the  one  garden-seat 
shop,  we  are  left  with  the  following  result : — 

Feminine  Shops.  Masculine  Shops. 

Dress   33  Dress   9 

Jewellers    21  Tobacco    10 

Boots   and    Shoes 8  Motors   9 

Sort  of  Linen  Places.  .  2  Guns    2 

Dog  Bureau    1  Garden   Seats    1 

65  31 

From  these  figures  a  firm  of  Manchester  actu- 
aries has  drawn  the  startling  conclusion  that  Bond 
Street  is  more  used  by  women  than  by  men.  It 
may  be  so.  But  a  more  interesting  question  is, 
how  do  all  these  duplicates  manage  to  carry  on, 
conisdering     the     very     reasonable     prices     they 

[146] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

charge?  At  one  point  there  are  three  jewellers 
in  a  row,  with  another  one  opposite.  Not  far  off 
there  are  three  cigarette-shops  together,  madly 
defying  each  other  with  gold-tips  and  silver-tips, 
cork-tips  and  velvet-tips,  rose-tips  and  lily-tips. 
There  is  only  one  book-shop,  of  course,  but  there 
are  about  nine  picture-places.  How  do  they  all 
exist?    It  is  mysterious. 

Especially  when  you  consider  how  much  trouble 
they  take  to  avoid  attracting  attention.  There 
are  still  one  or  two  window-dressers  who  lower 
the  whole  tone  of  the  street  by  adhering  to  the 
gaudy-overcrowded  style;  but  the  majority  in  a 
violent  reaction  from  that,  seem  to  have  rushed 
to  the  wildest  extremes  of  the  simple-unobtrusive. 
They  are  delightful,  I  think,  those  reverent  little 
windows  with  the  chaste  curtains  and  floors  of 
polished  walnut,  in  the  middle  of  which  reposes 
delicately  a  single  toque,  a  single  chocolate,  or  a 
single  pearl.  Some  of  the  picture-places  are 
among  the  most  modest.  There  is  one  window 
which  suggests  nothing  but  the  obscure  branch 
of  a  highly  decayed  bank  in  the  dimmest  cathe- 
dral town.  On  the  dingy  screen  which  entirely 
fills  the  window  is  written  simply  in  letters  which 
time  has  almost  erased,  "John  Smith — Pictures." 
Nothing  could  be  less  enticing.  Yet  inside,  I 
daresay,  fortunes  are  made  daily.     I  noticed  no 

[147] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

trace  of  this  method  at  the  Advertisers'  Exhibi- 
tion; they  might  give  it  a  trial. 

Now  no  doubt  you  fondly  think  that  Bond 
Street  is  wholly  devoted  to  luxuries;  perhaps  you 
have  abandoned  your  dream  of  actually  buying 
something  in  Bond  Street?  You  are  wrong.  To 
begin  with,  there  are  about  ten  places  where  you 
can  buy  food,  and,  though  there  is  no  pub,  now, 
there  is  a  cafe  (with  a  license).  There  are  two 
grocers  and  a  poulterer.  There  is  even  a  fish- 
shop — you  didn't  know  that,  did  you  ?  I  am  bound 
to  say  it  seemed  to  have  only  the  very  largest  fish, 
but  they  were  obviously  fish. 

Anyone  can  go  shopping  in  Bond  Street.  I 
knew  a  clergyman  once  who  went  in  and  asked  for 
a  back-stud.  He  was  afterwards  unfrocked  for 
riotous  living,  but  the  stud  was  produced.  You 
can  buy  a  cauliflower  in  Bond  Street — if  you  know 
the  ropes.  There  is  a  shop  which  merely  looks 
like  a  very  beautiful  florist's.  There  are  potatoes 
in  the  window,  it  is  true,  but  they  are  "hot-house" 
ones;  inside  there  is  no  trace  of  a  common  vege- 
table. But  if  you  ask  facetiously  for  a  cauliflower 
(as  I  did)  the  young  lady  will  disappear  below 
ground  and  actually  return  with  a  real  cauliflower 
(de  luxe,  of  course).  I  remember  few  more  em- 
harassing  episodes. 

And  if  you  like  to  inquire  at  the  magnificent 
[148] 


Little  Bits  of  London 

provision-merchant's,  he  too  will  conjure  up  from 
the  magic  cellars  boot-cream  and  metal-polish  and 
all  those  vulgar  groceries  which  make  life  possible. 
That  is  the  secret  of  Bond  Street.  Beneath  that 
glittering  display  of  luxurious  trivialities  there  are 
vast  reserves  of  solid  prosaic  necessaries,  only 
waiting  to  be  asked  for.  A  man  could  live  ex- 
clusively on  Bond  Street.  I  don't  know  where 
you  would  buy  your  butcher's  meat,  but  I  have  a 
proud  fancy  that,  if  you  went  in  and  said  some- 
thing to  one  of  those  sleek  and  sorrowful  jewel- 
lers, he  too  would  vanish  underground  and  blandly 
return  to  you  with  a  jewelled  steak  or  a  plush 
chop. 

Many  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  there  was  a 
butcher  in  Bond  Street.  Perhaps  you  dealt  there. 
For  my  part  I  was  not  eating  much  meat  in  those 
days.  But  I  can  imagine  his  window — a  perfect 
little  grotto  of  jasper  and  onyx,  with  stalactites 
of  pure  gold,  and  in  the  middle,  resting  on  a  gen- 
uine block  of  Arctic  ice,  an  exquisite  beef-sausage. 
I  wish  he  could  come  back. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  that  there  is  anything 
but  shop-windows  in  Bond  Street,  but  I  like  to 
think  that,  up  there  in  those  upper  stories  which 
one  never  sees,  there  does  dwell  a  self-contained 
little  community  for  whom  Bond  Street  is  merely 
the  village  street,  down  which  the  housewives  pass 

[149] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

gossiping  each  morning  to  the  greengrocer's  or 
the  fishmonger's,  and  never  purchase  any  pearls 
at  all. 

When  the  butcher  comes  back  I  think  I  shall 
join  them. 


[ISO] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

[I  understand  that  there  is  a  dearth  of  the  kind  of  hor- 
rible little  plays  which  the  public  really  wants.  It  ought 
not  to  be  difficult  to  meet  that  want.  Nearly  everybody  I 
know  is  good  at  dialogues  but  can't  do  plots ;  personally  I 
teem  with  plots,  but  am  not  so  good  at  dialogue.  So  I 
propose  to  present  you  with  the  ground  plan — the  scenario 
— of  a  few  really  sensational,  thrilling  and,  on  the  whole, 
unpleasant  playlets,  and  you  can  do  the  rest.] 


THE  MISSING  STAR 

(Based  on  an  old  legend,  and  also,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  on 

fact.) 

THE  scene  is  the  interior  of  a  small  tent  at 
a  country  fair.  Through  the  open  door 
can  be  seen  the  back  of  Bert,  who  is  shout- 
ing madly,  "Walk  up!  Walk  up!  Now  showin' 
— the  Performin'  Fleas!  Edward!  Edward! 
Does  everything  but  talk.  Walk  up  !  Walk  up  !" 
Seven  or  eight  people  file  sheepishly  into  the  tent 
and  stand  reverently  in  front  of  the  small  table 
under  the  single  bright  light — a  soldier  and  his 

[i5i] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

love,  two  small  boys,  a  highly  respectable  mater 
and  paterfamilias,  with  Reginald  in  an  Eton  collar, 
also  a  young  man  who  may  be  a  barrister,  or  pos- 
sibly one  of  those  writing  fellows.  They  do  not 
look  at  each  other;  they  are  ashamed. 

The  red  velvet  curtain  is  drawn  across  the  door 
of  the  tent,  muffling  the  wild  noises  of  the  fair. 

Mr.  Slint,  the  little  showman,  adjusts  his  gold 
pincenez  and  speaks;  the  audience  close  round  the 
table  and  crane  their  necks.  Mr.  Slint  speaks  in 
the  patronizing,  almost  contemptuous,  tones  of 
the  expert  lecturer  who  has  something  unique  to 
offer. 

Mr.  Slint  (quietly).  I  now  show  you  the  Per- 
forming Fleas.  The  fleas  are  common  fleas, 
trained  by  myself.  Perseverance  and  patience  is 
alone  required. 

The  Writing  Fellow  (intelligently) .  You 
never  use  the  whip? 

Mr.  Slint  (taking  no  notice).  Now  the  nature 
of  the  flea  is  to  'op;  it  is  not  the  nature  of  the  flea 
to  walk.  I  'ave  trained  the  fleas  to  walk.  I  will 
now  show  you  the  flea  as  newly  captured.  Being 
still  untrained,  'e  still  'ops,  you  se£. 

He  produces  a  miniature  kennel,  to  which  is 
attached  "by  a  'uman  'air"  an  undeniable  flea. 
The  flea  hops  gallantly,  but  is  clearly  impeded 
from  doing  its  best  jumps  by  the  human  hair. 

[152] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

We  are  now  shown  a  second  flea  which  is  "only 
half-trained."  He  has  certainly  forgotten  how 
to  hop.  Indeed  he  seems  to  be  suffering  from 
congenital  inertia.  He  scrambles  a  centimetre  or 
two  and  sometimes  makes  a  sort  of  flutter  off  the 
ground,  but  he  rather  suggests  a  solicitor  learning 
to  fly  than  a  flea  learning  to  walk. 

Mr.  S.  I  will  now  show  you  the  flea  when  fully 
trained. 

He  opens  a  small  cardboard  box  which  seems  to 
be  full  of  toy  four-wheelers  and  hansom-cabs. 
They  are  made  of  some  metal,  brightly  painted, 
with  substantial  metal  wheels.  One  of  these  ve- 
hicles is  placed  on  the  lighted  board  and  begins  to 
move.  It  is  drawn  by  Eustace.  It  moves  at  a 
steady  pace  towards  the  materfamilias. 

Reginald  (suddenly,  in  a  high  piping  voice). 
How  does  he  feed  them,  mother? 

The  Materfamilias.     Hush,  dear. 

Mr.  S.  (impassive) .  The  fleas  are  fed  on  the 
'uman  arm.      (An  after-thought)   My  own. 

Reginald  (an  imaginative  child).  Does  he 
feed  them  one  at  a  time  or  all  together,  mother? 

The  M.F.    Hush,  dear. 

Mr.  S.  I  will  now  show  you  Edward,  cham- 
pion flea  of  the  world. 

Edward  is  indeed  a  magnificent  creature.  He 
is  drawing  a  light  racing  hansom  and  he  shows  an 

[153] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

amazing  turn  of  speed.  Eustace  with  his  heavy 
old  four-wheeler  has  a  long  start,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment Edward  is  up  with  him;  he  has  passed  him. 

Reginald  {breathlessly) .  Mother,  he's  run- 
ning! 

And  so  he  is.  He  is  making  a  bee-line  for  the 
M.F.  Will  he  reach  her?  No.  Mr.  Slint  has 
cooly  picked  up  Edward's  hansom  and  is  showing 
him  to  the  spectators  through  a  magnifying-glass. 
The  limelight  is  thrown  on  to  Edward's  swarthy 
features  and  by  an  ingenious  use  of  the  cinema  we 
are  now  shown  a  striking  "close-up"  of  Edward's 
expression  as  he  is  passed  round  before  the  people 
in  the  tent,  hanging  in  his  tiny  collar  at  the  end 
of  the  human  hair.  Rage,  hatred,  mortification, 
boredom,  and  what  can  only  be  described  as  the 
lust  for  blood  are  indicated  in  turn  by  the  rolling 
eyes,  the  mobile  lips.  And,  as  he  passes  before 
the  M.F.,  he  wears  a  look  of  thwarted  ambition 
which  makes  one  shudder. 

Now  comes  the  final  spectacle.  Out  of  the 
little  box  Mr.  Slint  rapidly  takes  cab  after  cab 
and  sets  them  on  the  white  board,  line  abreast. 
Each  cab  is  drawn  by  a  single  devoted  flea.  On  the 
right  of  the  line  is  Edward,  on  the  left  is  Eustace. 
In  perfect  order  the  fleas  advance,  dressing  by  the 
right.    .    .    . 

It  is  a  moving  sight.    There  is  something  very 

[154] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

sinister  in  that  steady,  noiseless,  calculated  pro- 
gress— for  I  need  not  say  that  the  fleas  are  mov- 
ing away  from  Mr.  Slint :  they  are  moving  with 
machine-like  precision  towards  Reginald.  No, 
they  have  changed  direction.  Edward  has  given 
them  "Right  incline!"  They  are  moving  with 
machine-gun  precision,  silent,  inexorable,  cabs  and 
all,  towards  the  materfamilias. 

R.  {Shrilly,  still  worried).  Do  they  have  to  be 
unharnessed  for  meals,  mother? 

The  M.F.     Hush,  dear. 

Mr.  Slint  purrs  on  about  his  patience  and  per- 
severance. Suddenly  there  is  a  stir  on  the  right 
of  the  line;  there  has  been  an  accident;  Edward's 
wheels  are  locked  with  the  careless  four-wheeler's 
on  his  left.  A  scurry,  a  sharp  cry  from  Mr.  Slint 
and  Edward  has  disappeared. 

Mr.  Slint  acts  promptly.  The  door  of  the  tent 
is  barred.  He  announces  to  the  cowering  specta- 
tors that  a  valuable  artiste  is  missing  and  that 
those  present  are  to  be  searched  before  leaving. 
{He  suspects  foul  play.) 

Suddenly  he  makes  a  dart  at  the  M.F.  and  from 
her  shoulder — oh,  horror! — he  takes  a  Thing. 
"Larceny!"  he  cries;  "I  mean  abduction.  Quick 
Bert,  the  police." 

The  Paterfamilias.  Spare  her,  sir.  She  is  a 
mother. 

[155] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

A  policeman  (entering).  Now  then,  what's 
this  'ere? 

Mr.  S.  (moved  by  who  knows  what  chivalrous 
impulse).  Madam,  I  have  wronged  you.  This 
is  not  Edward.  It  is  one  of  yours.  (He  replaces 
the  Thing.) 

The  M.F.  (shrieking) .  Oh,  oh!  The  shame 
of  it! 

Reginald.  I  know,  mother!  Put  it  on  the 
table.  If  it's  Edward  it  will  walk:  if  it's  one  of — 
if  it's  not,  it  will  hop. 

The  Thing  is  placed  solemnly  upon  the  table. 
All  crowd  around  and  watch  for  the  issue.  The 
flea  does  not  walk.  On  the  other  hand  it  does 
not  hop.     Nothing  happens.     The  flea  is  dead. 

So  no  one  will  ever  know. 

The  M.F.  swoons  away.    .    .    . 

CURTAIN 


[156] 


The  Little  Guiggols 
ii 

THE  LURCH 

[Tyltyl.  "It  seems  hardly  worth  while,  then,  to  take 
so  much  trouble." — The  Betrothal.] 

I   AM  afraid  this  little  Guiggol  has  somehow 
got  mixed  up  with  M.  Maeterlinck;  but  the 
two  schools  have,  of  course,  a  good  deal  in 
common,  so  it  should  work  out  fairly  well. 

The  play  opens  in  The  Place  Which  is  Neither 
Here  nor  There ;  it  seems  to  be  a  high  hill  entirely 
surrounded  by  fog.  The  unfortunate  Bill  Tyl  and 
his  sister  Methyl*  are  doing  their  utmost  to  die, 
driven  on  by  the  sinister  figure  of  Indigestion, 
which  grows  larger  and  larger  as  the  play  pro- 
gresses. They  meet  with  a  good  deal  of  opposi- 
tion in  their  simple  project,  and  when  the  play  be- 
gins  they   have   already  been    to   the   House   of 

*  Who   afterwards  gave   her  name   to  the   celebrated   spirits. 

[157] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

Uncles  and  The  Abode  of  the  Half-Baked  for 
permission  to  die;  but  they  always  find  that  before 
they  can  do  it  they  have  to  go  to  just  one  more 
place  for  information  and  advice.  It  is  like  walk- 
ing up  one  of  those  tiresome  mountains  which 
never  seem  to  have  a  top;  or  it  is  like  trying  to 
find  out  which  Government  Department  is  really 
responsible;  or  it  is  like.    .     .     .But     enough. 

Bill  and  Methyl  have  now  been  told  that  they 
cannot  die  until  they  have  gone  down  and  rescued 
all  the  people  who  have  been  left  in  The  Lurch 
during  their  lives;  so  they  are  discovered  standing 
on  the  hill  preparing  to  go  down  to  The  Lurch. 
Indigestion  endeavours  to  dissuade  them,  saying 
that  they  had  much  better  go  down  the  other  side 
of  the  hill  into  The  Limbo.  But  the  seductive 
figure  of  Food  intervenes,  gorgeously,  dressed  in 
aspic,  and  eventually  prevails. 

At  this  point  there  is  a  jolly  bit  of  dialogue. — 

Bill  (profoundly) .     Food  is  good. 

The  Oldest  Uncle  (I  forget  how  he  got  there). 
Food  is  very  good. 

Food  (mysteriously) .  The  food  which  you  eat 
is  good,  but  the  food  which  you  do  not  eat  is 
better. 

Methyl  (frightened) .     What  does  she  mean? 

Bill.    I  do  not  know  what  she  means. 

Food.     I  do  not  know  what  I  mean. 

[158] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

The  O.  U.  I  do  not  know  what  the  author 
means. 

M.    Does  anybody  know  what  he  means? 

.    Indigestion.    He  does  not  mean  anything. 

Bill.  Oh,  oh!  I  wish  he  would  mean  some- 
thing. 

Ind.    He  is  pulling  your  leg. 

The  next  scene  is  The  Lurch  itself,  a  very  hor- 
rible place,  where  we  see  all  the  people  who  have 
been  left  in  it  wishing  they  could  get  out  of  it; 
or  at  least  we  don't  see  them  because  the  whole 
place  is  full  of  a  dense  fog;  but  they  are  there, 
groping  about  and  contemplating  unutterably  the 
opaque  immensities  of  boredom.  Their  hands 
move  visibly  through  the  vast  gloom,  plying  the 
instruments  of  Destiny;  most  of  them  knitting. 
You  see,  they  are  nearly  all  old  maids.  None  of 
them  can  be  got  out  of  The  Lurch  until  those  who 
left  them  in  it  remember  them  and  return.  There 
are  also,  of  course,  large  crowds  of  old  men  in 
all  stages  of  decay.  Many  of  them  are  Colonels 
who  have  been  left  in  The  Lurch  by  the  Govern- 
ment and  naturally  there  is  no  hope  for  them.  It 
is  all  extremely  sad. 

In  low  tones  they  do  a  little  dialogue,  like  sheep 
bleating  on  the  Mountains  of  Eternity. 

The  Oldest  Old  Maid.    Will  he  never  come? 

[159] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

The  Oldest  Old  Maid  But  One.  He  will  never 
come. 

A  Frightfully  Old  Man.    The  fog  is  very  foggy. 

The  O.  O.  M.  It  is  difficult  to  see  things  in  a 
fog. 

The  O.  0.  M.  B.  0.  If  he  came  I  should  not 
see  him. 

An  Awfully  Old  Colonel.    You  are  lucky. 

The  O.  0.  M.  B.  0.     I  am  not  lucky. 

The  0.  0.  M.     She  is  not  lucky. 

A.  F.  O.  M.     There  must  be  some  mistake. 

An  A.  O.  C.  You  are  not  waiting  for  the  Gov- 
ernment.    That  is  what  I  meant. 

The  O.  O.  M.    Oh,  oh!    He  meant  something. 
A.  F.  O.  M.    There  must  be  some  mistake. 
The  O.  O.  M.  B.  0.      Oh,  oh!    Somebody  is 
coming. 

Bill  and  his  party  come  in  on  all-fours.  You 
cannot  see  them  because  of  the  fog,  but  you  can 
hear  them  coughing.  It  is  terrible.  There  is  a 
scene  of  intense  intensity  while  Bill  Tyl  and 
Methyl  crawl  about  trying  to  find  the  people  they 
have  come  to  find.  Bill  keeps  finding  the  Awfully 
Old  Colonel  by  mistake,  and  this  causes  a  great 
deal  of  emotion.  The  one  he  is  after  is  The  Old- 
est Old  Maid  But  One,  and,  as  she  says  nothing 
but  "Oh,  Oh,  I  cannot  smell  him,"  instead  of  say- 

[160] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

ing,  "Here  I  am,  Bill,"  it  is  very  difficult  to  iden- 
tify her. 

But  suddenly  Methyl  remembers  that  in  all  her 
blameless  life  she  has  never  left  anyone  in  The 
Lurch.  (Wood-wind,  sotto  voce — and  strings, 
vibrato.)  The  rule  is  that  anyone  who  comes 
down  to  The  Lurch  and  remembers  things  like 
that  may  rescue  everyone  who  is  in  The  Lurch  at 
the  time. 

This  gives  general  satisfaction  and  the  whole 
party  sets  off  to  the  top,  Old  Maids  and  all. 

In  the  next  scene  we  are  back  at  The  Place 
Which  Is  Neither  Here  Nor  There  again,  only 
now  we  have  a  splendid  view  of  The  Place  of 
Ecstasy  and  The  Golden  Sea.  Also  a  little  to  the 
left  we  see  the  yawning  chasms  of  The  Limbo 
(which  is  only  one  better  than  The  Lurch). 

The  Place  of  Ecstacy  is  top-hole.  Gleaming 
unspeakably  in  the  unimaginable  radiance  of  the 
inconceivable  light  (80  watts),  immense  columns 
of  barley-sugar  melt  away  into  space,  avenue  by 
avenue,  while  just  below  in  The  Golden  Sea,  which 
is  entirely  composed  of  the  finest  golden  syrup, 
wallow  in  a  refined  manner  Those  Who  Have  Ar- 
rived. 

The  travellers  feast  their  eyes  on  this  vision  of 
bliss.  And  now  comes  the  terrible,  Guiggolian 
thrill.     There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  dialogue 

[161] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

on  the  way  up  from  The  Lurch,  and  poor  Bill  has 
been  brooding  gloomily  over  the  prospect  of 
spending  eternity  in  the  same  company. 

All  the  Old  Birds  are  standing  in  a  violet  haze 
of  ineffable  gladness  on  the  brink,  with  joyous 
springs  of  orangeade  bubbling  at  their  feet  and 
castor  sugar  descending  in  showers  all  round, 
when  Bill  has  a  very  naughty  impulse,  which  I 
regret  to  say  he  makes  no  attempt  to  resist. 

He  rushes  the  whole  crowd  of  Old  Birds  over 
into  The  Limbo.  Then  with  a  great  cry  of  joy 
he  and  Methyl  plunge  into  the  Golden  Sea. 

Food  and  Indigestion  are  left  behind — immut- 
able, eternal.    .    .    . 

CURTAIN 


[162] 


The  Little  Guiggols 
in 

NUMBER  SEVEN 

{Based  on  an  old  legend) 

A  Room  in  the  East.  Some  time  ago.  A  Man 
and  a  Woman  having  supper. 

She.     You  eat  heartily,  my  pomegranate. 

He.  Yes,  I  am  hungry.  And  I  am  happy,  for 
is  it  not  our  bridal  feast? 

She.  That  reminds  me.  There  is  something 
I  want  to  tell  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  meant 
to  tell  you  before,  but  I  have  been  so  busy  buying 
clothes. 

He.    Oh,  what  is  that?    Pass  the  salt. 

She  (passing).  The  fact  is,  you  are  not  my 
first  husband;  at  least,  not  exactly. 

He.    How  do  you  mean? 

She.  As  a  matter  of  fact  you  are  the — the  first 
but  five. 

[163] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

He  {working  it  out).  I  see.  I  take  it  the 
others  are  away  from  home. 

She  (gently).  No.  They  died.  Have  some 
more  salad? 

He.  Thank  you.  I'm  sorry.  At  least,  you 
know  what  I  mean. 

She.  The  odd  thing  was  that  they  all  died  at 
the  same  time — in  a  way. 

He.    Oh!    Was  there  an  epidemic,  or  what? 

She.  Oh,  no.  What  I  mean  is  they  each  died 
the  night  we  were  married. 

He.    That  is  curious.    Why  did  they  die? 

She.  Nobody  knows.  They  just  died.  It's 
given  me  a  great  deal  of  bother. 

He.  But  I  suppose  you've  been  able  to  use  the 
same  trousseau  in  each  case. 

She.  But  nay;  for  I  have  invariably  embroid- 
ered every  garment  in  gold  and  silver  with  the 
name  and  image  of  my  love. 

He.  By  Jove,  what  a  bore !  I  say,  have  you 
embroidered  any  garments  with  my  name  and 
image?    I'd  like  to  see  them. 

She  (sadly).  Nay,  my  beloved.  This  time  I 
have  embroidered  nothing.    It  seems  such  a  waste. 

He.     Yes,  yes,  of  course.     All  the  same 

You  know,  my  olive  branch,  I  can't  help  wishing 
you'd  told  me  about  this  before  we  were  wed. 

She.     I  am  sorry,  my  love.    I  can't  think  how  it 

[164] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

slipped  my  memory.  But  there  was  so  much  shop- 
ping to  be  done,  and  what  with  one  thing  and 
another Do  have  some  more  salad. 

He.  Thanks;  its  delicious.  By  the  way,  who 
made  it? 

She.  With  her  own  fair  hands  your  lily  con- 
trived it. 

He.  Oh!  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  won't  have  any 
more.     I  don't  feel  so  hungry  as  I  thought  I  did. 

She.  The  last  but  two  used  to  love  my  salads. 
All  his  married  life 

He  (musing).  By  the  way,  when  you  say 
"night,"  what  time  of  night  do  you  mean?  When 
did  the  last  but  two,  for  instance 

She.  I  should  have  said  "evening"  really;  it 
was  careless  of  me.     Usually  about  nine 

He  (looking  at  hour-glass) .  Curious — I  don't 
feel  nearly  so  well.     I  wonder  if 

[The  curtains  falls  to  denote  the  passage  of  a 
few  months.  When  it  rises  two  people  are  dis- 
covered at  supper — a  Woman  (the  same  one) 
and  a  Man  (a  different  one). 

She.    You  eat  heartily,  my  pomegranate. 

He.  Who  would  not  eat  heartily  on  the  day  of 
his  espousal  to  such  a  maid  as  thee. 

She.  That  reminds  me.  I  knew  there  was 
something  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  but  the  wedding 
put  it  quite  out  of  my  head. 

[165] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

He.  Truly,  what  shouldst  thou  think  of  at  thy 
espousal  but  thy  spouse? 

She.  Do  you  minding  saying  "you"?  None  of 
the  others  have  said  "thou." 

He.  As  you  will,  beloved.  But  of  what 
"others"  speakest  thou? 

She.  Well,  that's  really  the  point.  The  fact 
is,  my  tangerine,  you  are  not  my  first  spouse — at 
least,  not  quite. 

He.    How  so?    What  delicious  salad! 

She.  Have  some  more.  No,  you  are — let  me 
see — one,  two,  three,  four — yes,  you  are  the  first 
but  six.  It's  rather  a  curious  story;  I  wonder  if 
it  will  bore  you? 

He.  What  tale  from  thy  sweet  lips  could  tedi- 
ous be? 

She.  I  wish  you'd  get  out  of  that  "thy"  habit; 
it's  so  irritating.  Well,  the  fact  is  that  all  your 
predecessors  died  on  the  evening  of  our  wedding — 
I  mean  weddings — and  nobody  quite  knows  why. 

He.  Truly  a  strange  tale.  May  I  have  just 
one  more  go  at  the  salad? 

She.  Of  course.  I'm  so  glad  you  like  it.  Curi- 
ously enough,  the  one  before  you  was  very  fond 

of  it  too;  in  fact  I've  often  wondered Well, 

there  it  is.  Now  I  do  hope  that  nothing  is  going 
to  happen  to  you,  my  dear,  because  I  should  so 
hate  to  think  that  you  had  been  put  to  any  in- 
[166] 


The  Little  Guiggols 

convenience  on  my  account.  Besides,  it  upsets  the 
servants. 

He.  Have  no  fear,  beloved.  For  I  too  have  a 
secret.  I  know  thy — your — tragic  history;  a 
witch  has  revealed  it  unto  me. 

She.  You  know?  Well,  I  do  think  you  might 
have  told  me.    I  meant  it  to  be  a  surprise. 

He.  Further,  she  has  given  me  a  magic  charm 
to  protect  us  both. 

She.  I  say,  what's  that  mess  in  the  corner? 
There — on  the  plate. 

He.  That  is  the  heart  and  liver  of  a  fish,  my 
apple. 

She.  I  hope  you  haven't  brought  a  cat  into  the 
house;  father  can't  bear  them. 

He.    Nay,  my  love,  that  is  the  charm. 

She.  It  looks  a  very  large  one.  What  fish 
is  it? 

He.    It  is  the  heart  and  liver  of  a  sturgeon. 

She.  I  suppose  it  couldn't  have  been  done  with 
an  anchovy? 

He.  Nay,  nay.  For  the  witch  enjoined  me; 
first  I  must  burn  it 

She.     Yes,  I  think  you'd  better. 

He.  See?  {Burns.)  The  ashes  thereof  will 
drive  away  the  evil  spirit  that  molests  you. 

She  {recoiling) .     And  I  don't  wonder. 

[167] 


Little  Rays  of  Moonshine 

\The   Curtain  falls,  and  rises   again   the  next 
morning.     The  room  is  full  of  smoke. 

He  {shaving) .  Who  is  that  man  digging  in  the 
garden? 

She.  Oh,  that's  father.  He's  digging  a  grave 
for  you.     It's  become  a  sort  of  habit  with  him. 

He.    Wilt  thou  not  tell  him  it  is  not  required? 

She  (through  the  window).  Father,  we  shan't 
want  it  this  time.     Sorry. 

He.     I  thank  thee. 

She  (irritable).  Oh,  do  stop  saying  "thee." 
And  will  you  please  take  these  horrible  ashes  and 
throw  them  away  at  once?  Really,  I  can  hardly 
breathe. 

He.  Nay,  my  love.  They  are  our  charm 
against  danger.  Art  not  thou — aren't  you,  I 
mean — grateful  ? 

She.  Yes,  of  course.  But  they've  done  the 
trick  by  now.  We  can't  spend  our  whole  married 
life  in  this  atmosphere. 

He.  But  indeed  we  must.  The  witch  enjoined 
me  that,  unless  they  were  preservd,  I  should  per- 
ish, even  as  those  before  me. 

She.  Well,  I'm  extremely  sorry,  but  I  really 
can't  stand  this.  (Through  the  window.)  Father, 
you  might  bury  this,  will  you?  (throws  down  the 
ashes).  Thank  you.  Oh,  and  don't  fill  up  the 
hole  yet.     We  may  want  it  after  all. 

CURTAIN 

[168] 


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